Second Chances
by Aaron Cronin
Summary: After a terrible loss, Tony is still incomplete ... until an old flame - with her own issues - returns.
1. A Talk

Second Chances

Chapter 1

* * *

Standard boilerplate disclaimer: "Iron Man," Stark, Rhodes, Potts, Everhart et al. are all property of Marvel Entertainment and Paramount Pictures, blah blah blah legal crap blah-de-blah. I'm not getting anything from this other than the satisfaction that comes from creating, and the praise (I hope) of my peers. All original characters are mine, but I'll let others use them if they ask (and give credit).

As always, constructive feedback is definitely appreciated. Unconstructive feedback will get you beaten by goons I've hired for that specific purpose. (Just kidding. As far as you know.)

Author's Note: This story takes place about five years after the first "Iron Man" film. I'm writing this almost a year _before_ IM2, so I'm gambling it'll still be feasible once it and all the other sequels are released. But if it's not, I'll re-work it; no biggie.

* * *

"ETA to Dubai, JARVIS?"

The clipped British voice of Tony Stark's artificial-intelligence assistant sounded in the ears of his suit. "Approximately forty-seven minutes, sir. Also, Colonel Rhodes has just pulled up outside your villa there."

"Huh. Put my schedule for tonight on the heads-up display." It came up, and Tony found that, sure enough, he had no meetings scheduled for this evening, with Rhodey or without him, in Dubai, L.A. or anywhere. _Whew._ He hadn't missed a meeting in months, but it was always in the realm of possibility. "What in blazes is he doing in Dubai?"

"Seeing as he is parked in a car outside your villa, sir, I would hazard a guess that he is there to see you."

Tony rolled his eyes. He kept telling himself that someday he would reprogram the AI with a little less sarcasm, but other projects always seemed more urgent. "Is he alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Open the gate for him and let Fatima know he's coming. Tell them both that I'll arrive within the hour, and I'll be hungry." Fatima was Tony's Dubai live-in housekeeper/cook/den mother. She was a sixty-something widow with four sons in Stark Industries' employ – two at headquarters in L.A., two just up the road from Dubai at the fabrication plant in Sharjah. If he made a list of his most loyal employees, she'd be in the top ten at least.

"Any culinary preferences?"

"Nope, not as long as it's cooked. I'm not gonna be picky tonight."

"Very well, sir." JARVIS said no more, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts.

It had been a pretty standard mission, as missions went. S.H.I.E.L.D. never asked him to go anywhere unless their evidence was airtight, the entrance and escape routes were planned to the centimeter and all likely contingencies were accounted for. Stuff still went wrong on occasion, especially in a situation as fluid as the Pakistani Civil War. But this time it hadn't – he'd gotten in, destroyed the militia cell, rescued their hostage, returned her to her family and left within a few hours. And now, were it not for Platypus' arrival, his sked for the evening would be empty.

Empty as the night sky. Empty as his stomach. Empty as his heart ever since ...

He tried not to dwell on it, which was like the old saw about not thinking of elephants. "Dammit, it's not fair," he whispered.

"Sir?"

He sighed. "You heard me, JARVIS. You know what I meant."

"And I know you don't wish to discuss it, sir." A pause. "Would you like me to turn off the autopilot right now, so you have other things to occupy your attention?"

Tony hated being condescended to, especially by a piece of software – and one he created, no less. But ... he had to admit that it wasn't a bad idea. "Yeah, do that. Thanks." He felt the shiver as his suit took over navigation from the AI, then executed a barrel roll and a couple of loops just to get the feel of things. A few minutes later, he'd at least been able to push his loss to the back of his mind.

Where it would wait for another time ...

* * *

"I was about to retire for the night, Mr. Stark. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, Fatima, I think we're all set here. Thanks for the wonderful meal." Tony and Rhodey had by now repaired from the dining room to the sunken living room, and were nursing soft drinks while some easy-listening amalgam of jazz and traditional Arabian folk music played on the stereo.

"Indeed, my compliments to the chef," James Rhodes agreed, hoisting his glass of Coke in a toast. "Best lamb kebabs I've ever had."

"Ohhh, it was nothing," Fatima demurred. She bowed slightly, her _hajib_ quivering with her nervous giggles. "Are you still preparing to leave tomorrow morning, Mr. Stark?"

"Well, I'm going to check with S.H.I.E.L.D. tonight and see if they have anything else they need me for in the region. If they don't, yeah, I'll leave for the airport tomorrow at six." He used his private jet now even for Iron Man-related duties – flying halfway around the world in the suit took too big a toll on both him and the suit. Now that he'd set up facilities at all his houses for getting in and out of the armor, taking the plane was simpler and almost as fast. "Just clean up after I'm gone."

"I will do that. Good night, sir. Good night, Colonel Rhodes." Fatima toddled off to her apartment on the second floor.

"She's a sweetie," Rhodey remarked and took another sip.

"She is," Tony concurred. "I just wish I could find someone that good to keep my place in Libreville. I've had three different housekeepers there, but JARVIS keeps catching them stealing."

"I'll ask Marie if she knows somebody. Least I can do, since you were the one who brought us together." Three years before, Tony had still been putting together the spread of living quarters that would allow him to be Iron Man worldwide with minimal inconvenience. But he was having trouble finding a good place in Africa, the largest gap in his network. So he asked Rhodey if he could do some legwork for him, talking with people at the African embassies in Washington. In the process, Rhodey had met the pretty, Georgetown-educated daughter of the ambassador from Gabon. Now, Tony had a nice house in the Batterie IV section of Libreville, the Gabonese capital ... and Rhodey and Marie had been married for over a year. It was a win-win.

"A happy accident – but if you want to give me credit, I'll take it." Both men laughed, and Tony took another pull from his bottle of Masafi mineral water. "So what brings you by, Platypus? Other than serving as my HR man for maid services, I mean."

"Well, I was down in Abu Dhabi for the treaty ceremony today." It had been an important ceremony, too. The full establishment of a Palestinian state, and Israel's willingness to support it, had done a lot to ease tensions in the region. That morning, three countries – Bahrain, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates – had signed a joint agreement with Israel, recognizing the Jewish nation's right to exist and agreeing to full diplomatic relations. "And I remembered you mentioning you might be around here this week. I just thought I'd stop by."

"Because?" Then, after a few seconds of silence: "C'mon, you couldn't have a lousier poker face if you tried. Spit it out."

Rhodey stared into his glass for a few seconds before answering. "I'm worried about you, Tone."

"What?" Tony replied with a laugh. "You're not serious, are you?"

Rhodey was smiling, but ruefully. "I'm serious, Tony. You're not the same person."

"Well, I'd like to think I'm somewhat ... improved. Even aside from this." He tapped the middle of his chest, where his personal arc reactor hid beneath his shirt. "I'm in the best shape of my life. I've been sober for close to two years now. The company is going gangbusters, and the stockholders are thrilled. Even Nick Fury's pleased with me, and that guy's _never_ happy! What's to be worried about?"

Rhodey waited until Tony's chuckles died off before he spoke. "So if I said her name right now, you'd be just fine? No problems at all?"

Tony could feel himself going pale. His eyes momentarily flickered to one of the bookshelves near the stereo system.

Rhodey looked at the same place, and nodded. "Uh-_huh_. I'm gonna take that as a no."

Now it was Tony's turn to gaze into his drink. "Low blow, man."

"I'm sorry for that. But if you weren't gonna cop to it by yourself, I knew I had to bring it up."

"Yeah ..." Tony shook his head in resignation. "What am I supposed to do about it, though? I can do a lot of things with that suit, but ... but I can't use it bring her back."

"No, you can't. And you can't do it by running yourself ragged, or by distracting yourself with other things, or anything else. But you can move on with your life. You can get past it. I mean, what would she say if she saw you like this, right now?"

Tony thought about that. "She'd ... probably say she was glad that I was making meetings on time ..."

Rhodey shrugged, then motioned for him to continue.

"... but she'd also say that I needed to get my head out of my butt and stop moping. Well, she'd say it a lot better than that – and she'd sound better doing it – but ... that would be the essential message."

"Yep," Rhodey replied, nodding. "Yep, I think it would be."

"Okay then, smart guy. How?"

The sudden sharpness in Tony's voice shocked him almost as much as the question. "What do you mean?"

Tony took a deep breath, then another sip of water. "I need to move on. Great. I get that. But how am I supposed to do it? I mean, I don't drink anymore, for some very good reasons, so hiding in a bottle is out. I'm getting a little old to do the social scene like I used to – besides which, I'm just not interested. I've got the corporation, and I've got S.H.I.E.L.D., and I've got the charities I support, but those can only go so far. As you have pointed out. And that's it. What am I supposed to _do_?" His voice had begun rising at the start of the rant; now he was just short of yelling.

And Rhodey was staring at him goggle-eyed. "I do not believe this. I never thought I would have to remind _Tony Stark_, once the Don Juan of defense contractors, that there are other fish in the sea! Where, exactly, did I step through the looking-glass?" He smiled and chuckled, hoping to get the same from Tony.

It failed. "Are you saying I just need to get laid? You think that's all there is to it?" The contempt in Tony's voice was a foot thick.

"No, Tony, that's not ... well, not _exactly_ what I mean. But you can find somebody else ..."

Tony seemed to deflate. "Rhodey," he said in a near-whisper. "I know there are other women out there. But none like her." Another sip. "None even close."

"You don't know that, Tone."

"Yes, I do. God made her and threw away the mold."

"Tony, stop it. You haven't met every single eligible lady on this planet. Even as busy as you used to be, you didn't even meet a big percentage of 'em. It's good for you that you don't drink anymore. It's good for you that you're so conscientious about Stark Industries. It is NOT good for you to be pining for years on end about her, or about anyone. You need to do whatever it takes to get yourself right, and that means you ... have ... to ... let ... go. You're not helping her by acting this way. You're just hurting yourself, and in the end that'll hurt everyone around you. You know this."

Tony said nothing, just breathed deep.

"Now you see why I was worried."

"Yeah, I guess I do." Tony shook his head. "Easier said than done."

Rhodey reached over and tapped Tony's arc reactor with his finger. "You figured out how to build _that_, in a cave in freaking Afghanistan with one assistant and a bunch of spare parts. You can manage that, I'm willing to bet you can manage anything this side of multiplying loaves and fishes."

"Well, we're working on the nanotechnology to do that, but it's still a long way ..."

"Tony ..."

Tony stopped, and finally nodded. "I know what you mean." Another sigh. "I guess you're right, I just ... don't know if I have the stomach for it. But ... but yeah, I've gotta do something. Any ideas? Does Marie have a sister?"

"Well, she does. But I don't know if she's your type – you've never gone much for the sistas. And besides, she's built like Wally's wife."

"Oh, dear heavens, Rhodey! Don't start on Wally's wife, okay? He is _still_ pissed off at you about that ..." But he was smiling again, which he suspected had been Rhodey's intent. "Thanks for leveling with me, man."

"Hey, what are friends for if not to slap you around when you need it?" Rhodey laughed, then stood up. "Now, I need to get back to the embassy before folks start wondering when they'll get the ransom demands. But I'm glad to know you at least ... recognize the situation."

Tony stood up too. "I think I do. Not sure what I'll do about it yet, but ... I suppose I'll think of something."

"You always do, Tony. You always do."

"C'mon, Platypus. I'll walk you out."

Tony returned to the living room a few minutes later, but he didn't go straight to his seat. Instead, he walked to the bookshelf and picked up a framed photograph before sitting down.

He stared at the photo in silence as he drained the last of his Masafi. Only after it was gone did he speak. "Dammit, it's not fair."

Virginia Marie Potts. Pepper. Bachelor's from Stanford, MBA from UCLA. Tony's personal assistant for a decade. One of the five smartest women he'd ever met. One of the five most beautiful women he'd ever met. Certainly the greatest combination of the two. The only woman he ever wanted to try and impress. The only one he'd ever considered to be out of his league, although he had always hoped she would be willing to reach down to his level.

The only woman he figured he could never live without. Until the day when he had no choice.

Virginia Marie Potts. Dead almost two years now, of a massive heart attack. Only thirty-eight years old.

The tears were running down Tony's cheeks unchecked. He hardly noticed. "It's not fair ..."


	2. A Demo

Second Chances

Chapter 2

For all previous disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1. I hate repeating myself, lol.

One extra note: there's a mention of some people from ... let's just say another story about flawed superheroes. But those folks are not quite the same in _this_ universe as they are in the one you may have seen on the big screen in March '09. So it isn't a true crossover. Just wanted that clear at the outset.

But thanks to Alan Moore regardless ...

* * *

"You have your men set up, Chief?" Tony had been back from Dubai for a week, and was back to doing business.

"Ready for anything you can throw at them." The chief of the San Diego police department waved a hand to indicate the eight SDPD members arrayed around a city-block-sized empty lot. All of them were crouching behind obstacles that had been set up earlier that day for the demonstration. They were dressed to look like gang members, and were armed with machine guns and sawed-off shotguns. One even had a couple of Molotov cocktails at the ready.

"All right." Tony Stark turned on a cordless microphone that broadcast to two stacks of speakers set up behind riot barricades across the street. Also behind the barricades were representatives from over fifty major municipal police and county sheriff's departments in the United States and Canada, in town for a police convention that weekend. "How's everyone doing over there?"

A chorus of cheers came from the crowd. The audience was limited to the police representatives and a few local TV stations; Tony and the city had agreed that, while everything was being done to keep things as safe as possible, it couldn't be _guaranteed_ safe. So for the time it took to set up, do the demo and tear down, the area was cordoned off.

"Great," Tony replied, before talking into a smaller mic, this one clipped to his lapel. "Okay, Wally, it's showtime. Come on in."

With the figurative fuse lit, he went back to playing to the crowd. "Now, this is the scenario we've set up here. A local gang is in the midst of a shooting war with police and has actually blocked a city street, at both ends of a block. They're well-armed and very dangerous. The police can't risk bringing in a helicopter because of the close quarters and the potential danger to civilians in the area. To beat these guys, you either need to use overwhelming ground forces – which will put an unreasonable amount of your own personnel at risk. Or you need something small enough to be maneuverable in a tight space, yet powerful enough to take care of business. But where are you going to find something like that?" Silence. "Yep, it's a puzzler." That got a chuckle from the audience.

Tony heard a sound in the distance like a low-flying jet. Better cut to the chase. "Okay, a few years back, I began working on something that might fill that kind of niche. It wasn't originally for that purpose, it was for my own use. You, uh, may have heard of it." More laughter. "In the end, it turned out to be too useful an invention _not_ to share with those who had more need of it than I did – including law enforcement. So we at Stark Industries have been working on streamlining the design, simplifying it and finding ways to mass-produce the component parts, for use by police and sheriff's departments. Something that can give one good officer the ability and strength of ten or twenty."

The noise was getting louder. Tony glanced over his shoulder and saw an object in the sky coming toward them, maybe three blocks away. Perfect timing. He began walking toward the barricades. "So without further ado, I give you the next great breakthrough in the war against crime. Ladies and gentlemen, this ... is Iron Man Blue!"

Now out of harm's way, he turned off his mic and got to hear the gasp as the police reps watched the object resolve into a metal suit, over six feet tall and navy blue with silver highlights. It hovered briefly over the demonstration space before descending into the middle of it. As it came down, the "gang members" began firing their guns at it, but the bullets had no effect even at close range.

With a last flare of repulsor jets, Iron Man Blue landed with a thump and began striding toward a junker station wagon, behind which three of the eight assailants were hiding. They kept firing at it until it got close enough that the ricochets would have put them in danger. Then one of them jumped on the car hood and tried to club the metal man with the stock of his sawed-off.

Bad move. The shotgun didn't damage the suit, or even slow it down. Iron Man Blue yanked the gun out of his hand, snapped it in two over its knee, and then simultaneously grabbed the man and the front door of the car. Ripping the door off its hinges, he dumped the man onto the ground on his back, then dropped the door on him to temporarily hold him in place.

Next, he lifted up the station wagon and set it over to the right on its side, with the hole left by the missing door facing up. The other two shooters had been shocked into immobility by all this, so it was easy work to knock aside their weapons, pick them both up and drop them in the hole like cookies into a jar. Retrieving the first man, Iron Man Blue did the same with him, then in one movement flipped the car over so the hole was on the bottom, and left it there, trapping the three men inside – unharmed but also unarmed.

Meanwhile, the "gangbanger" with the Molotov cocktails had snuck up behind the metal suit, with one of his homemade bombs. Quickly he lit it, threw and began running away. Not fast enough, though – Iron Man Blue was unaffected by the miniature blaze, and caught up to the bomb-thrower in seconds. Firing its foot jets, it lofted them both into the air, hauling the fellow up by one ankle and depositing him on top of a streetlight pole to hang on for dear life.

That left four men, who were beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of their battle plan. One dropped his gun and tried to make a run for it, but within fifteen seconds he was in the same position as the bomb-thrower (only on a different light pole). Another, who had burned through an entire clip of ammo already to no effect, reloaded his Uzi and kept firing until he ran out of bullets again, whereupon Iron Man Blue removed the gun from him, squashed it into a ball, then tore a wheel off another junker and used it like a paperweight to keep him in place. The last two, smartly, dropped their weapons and surrendered in hysteria.

Tony smirked at the San Diego police chief. "Ready for anything I can throw at them, huh?" he remarked. The chief didn't respond; he was too busy staring, glazed-eyed, at the demonstration area.

With all its enemies neutralized, Iron Man Blue went about bringing its five non-in-"car"-cerated assailants into one place near the station wagon. And then, for the first time, it spoke – loudly. "YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT," it began, and a loud cheer rose up from the crowd as the metal suit – or whoever was in it – read to all of its prisoners their Miranda rights.

After Iron Man Blue released the eight officers (none of whom had suffered anything worse than bumps, bruises and one case of vertigo), Tony turned his mic back on and stepped in front of the barricades. "Okay, you see what we've got here. I'll take questions – one at a time please."

An older man in the back raised his hand, and Tony recognized him. "Now, there is someone in that suit, right? That's not just a remote-controlled device?"

"Good question – yes, there is someone in the suit. Hey, Wally, why don't you step out here and meet your new fans?"

A few seconds passed before they heard a series of hisses, as the backs of the legs, torso, head and left arm of the suit popped open. Then the audience got another shock as a skinny young man of average height, wearing basketball-player-style prescription goggles, stepped out of the metal monster. He looked for all the world like a computer nerd. The young man pulled out of his hip pocket something that looked like the remote for a set of car keys, tapped a button, and Iron Man Blue closed up and shifted to standby mode.

Tony motioned him to come over, then returned his attention to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, my associate, Wally Dreiberg. As you can guess by looking, you don't need unusual size or strength to pilot an Iron Man Blue. But you do need decent stamina. Wally used to run track at Cal State-L.A.."

"5000 and 10,000 meters," Wally told the crowd. "Plus cross-country in high school."

Tony couldn't help but smile. Walter Edward Dreiberg had been one of Pepper's last successes. As an undergrad engineering intern at Stark Industries' new automotive division two years ago, he had already proven himself more than capable to his bosses. But Pepper's research had turned up an interesting factoid: his parents Daniel and Laurie Dreiberg had been masked vigilantes, superhero wannabes, in the New York City area in the late 1970s and early 1980s, before the Bernhard Goetz scandal had driven them and others underground. They'd even named their son after two deceased fellow partners-in-justice, Walter Kovacs and Eddie Blake. The day before Pepper's death, Tony approved Wally's transfer to his own personal staff, with specific responsibilities dealing with any Iron-Man-related developments. After all, if anyone could understand the concept of Iron Man, or the pressure involved in being him, it would be the Dreibergs' kid.

Tony took a breath and did his best to block any _Pepper_-related developments from his mind. Stick with the business at hand. "So if you want to put someone in the suit, you may need then to spend a little quality time with a treadmill first." A few laughs from the gallery. "But there's nothing stopping a five-foot-one, hundred-pound female officer from piloting one, as long as she's trained. We'll build each one custom-sized for the officer who'll pilot it, whether they look like a ladies' figure skater or an NFL defensive tackle."

The questions came thick and fast. Was it really bulletproof? "Chief, were your men using real bullets? (Nod from the police chief.) There you go." Could anything knock that suit down? "Oh, sure – surface-to-air missile, tank shell, mortar round ... (Laughter.) But I can tell you we hit one with two RPGs simultaneously, and it stayed upright." How much training was required to operate one? "Sixty to eighty hours, minimum. And training for the pilot is included in the purchase price." How much did it weigh? What was its top traveling speed? How many miles to the gallon? "Okay, my assistant should be here ..." Tony turned and saw a limousine pulling up by one of the Jersey rails blocking the street. "... oh, good, she just arrived. She's got information packets that will include all the specs, as well as a DVD of a previous demo. But I can tell you that it doesn't run by 'the gallon' – it's powered by Stark Industries' patented arc reactor technology, and will only need recharging every ... mmm, twelve years or so, given normal estimated usage. Hi, Pauline – can you start passing out those packets? Who wants one?" Everyone in the crowd seemed to have a hand up.

As the muscular black woman began putting brochures in eager hands, Wally leaned toward his boss. "I guess we have a success, sir."

"I guess so. Looks like you earned your salary many times over today." Which was true – Stark Industries was setting the price of an Iron Man Blue as low as they could while still clearing a worthwhile profit. They didn't want to rip off law enforcement, after all. But that still put the cost of one about $80,000, roughly that of three police squad cars.

Nonetheless, by noon they had taken tentative orders (contingent on approval by the various municipalities) for over a dozen, and handed out seventy-five packets. Soon enough, Stark Industries would benefit from a new revenue source – and some cities and counties would have a new tool to push back the criminal element.

* * *

The Iron Man Blue suit, empty, weighed over a quarter-ton, so the easiest way to transport it back to Stark HQ was to simply fly it back. Which Wally did, while Tony and Pauline returned to Los Angeles in the limo – after a quick stop to pick up lunch.

"Mm-hmm," Pauline Collins commented around another bite. "Maybe the best thing about moving to California – In 'N Out Burger."

"Really? Number one is a hamburger place?" Tony replied. "Where do I rank?"

"Oh, somewhere in the top ten, sir," she answered before taking the next bit.

Tony grinned. After Pepper's death, he had been forced to become more organized or lose control of his company completely. He'd succeeded to an admirable extent, but that didn't preclude the need for a personal assistant. Pauline had been a U.S. Army company clerk at Fort Benning who was looking to get out of the service after twenty years, and Rhodey had recommended her to Tony. She wasn't quite as omnicompetent as Pepper, or as omnipresent – for one, she insisted on more reasonable working hours. But she was almost as good in most areas, and even better at deflating his ego when it needed it. She was also a help when he tinkered with the Iron Man suit, since she was roughly the same size as Tony and could thus stand in when he needed a body double.

"Well, I'll have to see what I can do to work into the top five. How's the schedule look for the rest of today? I've been so keyed up for this demo, I haven't thought much about afterward." It being a Saturday, he didn't expect much.

Pauline set down her burger and picked up her Blackberry. "Nothing much, sir. You said you wanted to call Ronny Blankenship to let him know how the demo went today." Ronny was the vice-chairman of the Stark board, a white-haired Alabaman who before his retirement had been of the big wheels at Lockheed Martin. He'd been invaluable in stabilizing the company's fortunes after Tony's return from Afghanistan, and especially after Obadiah Stane's death and the revelation of his various schemes. (In fact, it had been Ronny's advice five years before to "above all, tell the truth" that convinced Tony to skip S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ludicrous cover story and come clean about what had happened to the Stark Industries arc reactor, plus his own role as Iron Man.) "I think he also has a few suggestions for the Iron Man Green project." Iron Man Green was similar to Blue, but for the U.S. military and thus more heavily armed.

"Well, I don't even have to wait until I get back to do that – I'll call him while we're on the way home. What else?"

"Let's see ... Nick Fury has left three messages in the last forty-eight hours wanting to speak with you ..."

Tony suggested Nick Fury do something obscene, that if attempted would cause the S.H.I.E.L.D. director severe internal injuries.

Pauline didn't turn a hair. "Physically impossible, but knowing Mr. Fury, it wouldn't entirely shock me. Still, you should probably call him back, at the very least to forestall him showing up unannounced – that never goes well."

"Okay. That call will have to wait until I get home, though." It wasn't an attempt to stall; Fury required that all messages to him be sent through ultra-secure channels. The connections at Tony's Malibu home qualified. The limo's car phone and Tony's personal cell didn't, even though they both met Department of Defense standards for security. Nick Fury was very picky that way. "Any idea where he wants to send me next?"

"You know he never tells me anything," Pauline replied with the faintest note of resentment. "But if I had my guess, I'd say Venezuela." The recent assassination of Hugo Chavez had left a power vacuum that at least a dozen different people were hoping to either fill or take advantage of.

"Makes as much sense as anything. That'll mean getting the cottage in Bonaire up to speed, too – I could fly the suit straight to Venezuela from Malibu ..."

"... But it wouldn't be wise," she finished for him.

"Exactly. Regardless, I'll ring you this afternoon and let you know."

"I appreciate that, sir. And finally, there's the fundraiser for the American Red Cross at the Kodak Theater, beginning at seven. Your tux is already laid out – did you want Happy to drive you there or ...?"

"Nah, I'll drive myself this time." The soiree at the Kodak was Tony's first attempt at getting back into the social scene since his talk with Rhodey, and he was going to go through with it if it killed him. But he wasn't setting his expectations high, and he certainly didn't want any minders coming along, not even his faithful chauffeur. Bad enough that Rhodey (currently in the midst of a short TDY in Colorado Springs) and Nick Fury would probably both have people there keeping an eye on him – albeit for different reasons.

And so it was that at 7:05 (fashionably late), Tony found himself handing the keys to his Audi R10 to a parking attendant. But as he headed toward the front doors, two sudden thoughts occurred to him. One, _what do I do to keep away from the booze?_, he had considered before and had some ideas. After all, any well-stocked bar – and one at an event this big was going to be _very_ well-stocked – would have soft drinks to make Jack & Cokes or Seven & Sevens, orange juice for building screwdrivers, mineral water for the designated drivers and a host of other beverages that would still allow him to keep working toward his Alcoholics Anonymous two-year badge. As long as he could push past the siren song of the alcohol fumes, he would be okay.

But the second question was one that hadn't come to mind before, largely because he'd walled off that part of his life for so long that he'd never needed to worry about it. _If I_ do _meet a woman here I want to hook up with ... how is she going to react to this THING I've got in the middle of my chest?!?_

That one stopped him dead in his tracks. He'd turned away from his old lifestyle as "the Don Juan of defense contractors" (to use Rhodey's phrase) after getting back from his captivity in Afghanistan, five years before. There had been temptations along the way (Black Widow came to mind, and he suppressed a shudder), but really the only woman he'd seriously considered a relationship with since then had been ... Pepper. Who had dismissed the idea the few times he'd dared to broach it.

He was about to start mentally kicking himself again for not having pursued her more ardently when he realized that he hadn't moved in almost a minute. And people might start to notice soon. And it was a little chilly outside. He shook his head in an effort to get his brain back on track, and headed into the reception. What the fairer sex might think of his implant ... he'd drive off that bridge when he came to it.

As it came about, neither question was much at issue for most of the event. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to belly up to the bar, order a glass of San Pellegrino water (his favorite), and move away to mingle. Most of his time was spent talking business, and he noted a lot of interest in Stark Automotive and when the first models would hit the market (autumn the following year was the goal, but obstacles did happen ...). It bode well for Stark Industries' ongoing transition from specializing in weapons systems to a more diversified, less explosive product platform. And the only eligible female who ended up engaging him in non-business-related conversation was a recently divorced TV actress whom he not only didn't find attractive, but who was too busy getting herself wrecked on Southern Comfort to keep up her end of the dialogue for long.

It was only after the announcements of the largest donations that anything changed. Tony had chipped in $500,000, half in his name and half in the name of Stark Industries, and was glad to do it. The big declaration of the night was a Hollywood studio exec contributing a cool million to the cause, but Tony didn't mind being one-upped in this case. The Red Cross was a worthy charity, regardless of who gave or how much.

And as the party began to wrap up and Tony turned back to the bar to get one more refill on his drink, he heard a voice behind him. "Tony Stark, as I live and breathe!"

_He knew that voice ..._


	3. A Reunion

Second Chances

Chapter 3

* * *

For all standard disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1.

* * *

"Tony Stark, as I live and breathe!"

He knew that voice ... and found himself smiling. "Well, I certainly hope you're living and breathing. I don't believe in ghosts." He turned around. "Long time no see, Ms. Everhart."

Christine Everhart stood three feet away, highball glass in hand. Her blonde hair was a little shorter than Tony had remembered it, but that might have simply been his memory. Otherwise, it could have been the spring of 2008 at the Disney Concert Hall, when she took him to the woodshed over those pictures from Gulmira. She was wearing a sea foam-green dress that left enough to the imagination to get his imagination going, along with black knee-high leather boots. "It has been a long time – what, five years?"

Tony nodded. "Yep, five years. The big press conference ..."

"When I accidentally outed you about being Iron Man," she finished for him.

"Oh, that was accidental? Not that I mind," he added, holding up a hand. "Looking back, I'm glad it happened. But no, I really thought you'd sussed me out."

Christine shook her head. "I had a suspicion that something didn't add up – that's why I pressed you on the official story. It wasn't until you said 'superhero' that I suddenly realized _why_ it didn't add up." She paused for a moment before adding, "That took a lot of guts, just laying all your cards on the table like that."

"Well, I'd been given good advice and bad advice beforehand. That time ... I had the sense to take the good advice. Y'know, let me get a refill and we'll find a place to settle and catch up. Unless you need to be somewhere ..."

"No, I'm free for a while. What are you drinking? Looks like a vodka tonic ..."

_Oh boy, am I about to shock her_, Tony thought. "No, actually, uh ... San Pellegrino. Mineral water."

Sure enough, she was shocked. "Tony Stark ... on the wagon? Oh my, we have GOT to catch up! Go top up, I'll find us some chairs."

She found two well-cushioned ones, near one of the theater entrances, and they both got comfy. Christine picked up where she left off. "So have you really become a teetotaler? Or am I misinterpreting things?"

"No misinterpretation. Two years in July. That's not a problem, I hope," he added puckishly.

"No, not at all – I'm just surprised! That's a pretty major lifestyle change for you, isn't it?"

Tony nodded philosophically. "Well, I've been through a few life changes the past several years. Most of them good." _Some of them not_, he mentally added, then decided to change the subject. "So what's that you're having?" he said with a gesture toward the pale orange liquid in her glass.

"Oh, it's a Burning of Atlanta."

Tony mouthed the words _burning of Atlanta_, then shook his head. "You got me there."

Christine smiled. "Two parts Absolut Peppar, one part peach schnapps."

Tony's eyes bulged for reasons having nothing to do with his own beverage choices. "That sounds ..." He didn't want to offend her by saying _awful_, but he couldn't think of a more diplomatic term.

She wasn't offended by his pause – in fact, she laughed. "That's how almost everyone reacts when I tell them! I know, it's a strange combination, but I like my drinks to have a lot of ... well, flavor! Besides, it's fun to go into a bar in the South and order it – you get the greatest reactions."

"I guess you would. And amazingly, you've lived to tell about it." That provoked another laugh, which Tony appreciated. She had a great laugh. "So what have you been doing in the South – working down there?"

"Not recently. But I grew up around Richmond, Virginia, so every so often I visit the old homestead." She said this with less enthusiasm.

"Oh. You don't make it sound fun ... I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so nosy."

"No, it's okay. My ... my stepfather and I don't get along so well." She paused for a moment, then added, "You know, you probably know my stepdad. Paul Deston."

The name registered with Tony immediately. "Paul Deston ... yes, he was in the Defense Department under Dubya's dad, wasn't he?"

"Assistant Undersecretary for Policy," she replied. "Now you see where I got some of my liberal opinions."

"From rebelling against him?" Christine nodded in amusement. "That would do it. I don't know if I ever met him, but I remember Obie mentioning him. Not with the gentlest of language, either. So he's a bit difficult at times?"

Christine looked up for a moment, trying to pick her words carefully. "Let's just say he definitely has the courage of his convictions. I just don't always agree with his choice of convictions. But enough about me – what have you been up to? Aside from sobriety, I mean."

Tony began telling her about some of the (non-classified) events at Stark Industries, including the new automotive and medical divisions, and how he was working not only to establish accountability but also expand the company beyond "blowing things up." He also shared a few of his tamer adventures as Iron Man, and gave her a blow-by-blow of the Iron Man Blue demo that morning.

"Impressive," Christine said when he concluded. "So you are still making weapons, but you're making them more responsibly."

"Well, we're trying to. I mean, I still agree with a lot of what my dad said ... but that has to be balanced by the knowledge that weapons, even when they're used in the best manner possible, can't make the world better – they can only keep it from getting worse. And when used in the worst manner possible ... well, then you get what Obie was doing behind our backs." He sighed and shook his head. He still couldn't understand why Obie had been so irresponsible in giving high-level weaponry to groups like the Ten Rings. Yes, greed could blind people, and yes, Tony's old attitudes had led to a lot of resentment by his onetime mentor and business partner. But even those in tandem didn't seem to explain it all ...

Christine brought him back with a question. "Were you ever able to track down all the armaments Stane shipped out without the company's knowledge?"

"I think so. Damn, I hope so. It took over a year, and they were scattered from here to breakfast. I had to go into five or six different countries before I was finished. Seems like every half-baked terrorist in Central Asia or the Middle East had something they'd gotten from him." Another shake of the head. "And on that same subject, thank you."

Now Christine was confused. "Um, you're welcome. But what for?"

"Christine, if you don't show me those pictures from Gulmira, I don't find out Obie's double-dealing. If I don't pursue that, I don't find out that Obie's trying to kill me, and I'm not ready when he comes stomping in with his Ironmonger suit. Basically, you helped save my life. There were others involved ..." He thought of Pepper again, and suppressed a wince. "... But you made the first contribution. I'm not likely to forget that."

Christine looked stunned. "I had no idea," she said with a nervous chuckle. "I just remember being so totally pissed off at you when I found out about all those Stark weapons in Gulmira that I was ready to do battle with you myself. Saving your life would've been the last thing on my mind ..." She found herself laughing, and hoped Tony would see the humor in it.

Not only did he, he laughed even harder than she did. "Well, there's the law of unintended consequences for you!" he said, which got them both laughing even more.

I t was only once they both got their breath back that something occurred to Tony. Yes, he was having a lot of fun talking to this intelligent, witty and attractive woman. But she wasn't just an intelligent, witty and attractive woman – she was also an intelligent, witty and attractive _reporter_. And therein lay pitfalls. "Um ... all that we've been talking about here ... this is all off the record, right?"

The question didn't offend Christine, but it did take her by surprise. "Oh! Oh no, this is just the two of us. I'm not a working reporter these days. Heck, I'm only able to be here because a friend of mine is on the local Red Cross board and got me in."

Tony's eyebrows shot up. "You're not a working reporter? What happened, layoffs?" The print industry had taken one hit after another over the previous decade, with the rise of the Internet as a primary news source for most people. The majority of the newspaper industry had either converted to subscription-based online services or just disappeared, and now feature magazines were feeling the pinch as well.

"No, nothing like that." She seemed to become reticent, staring down at the toe of her left boot. "I'm, uh ... on sabbatical right now."

"Working on a book?"

"Actually, yes, though it's slow going. But like you, I've had a lot of ... life changes. And after the past several years, it's just nice to have a break."

"I can see that." Tony rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So what happened after the press conference in '08?"

The slight change of subject seemed to improve Christine's mood. "Funny thing. You mentioned unintended consequences ... well, my profile was a little higher afterward from being the reporter who got Tony Stark to spill the beans, however unintentionally." She grinned. "Someone at the McCready news syndicate saw the press conference and decided to look up my resumé."

"McCready, huh? They're a solid outfit."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that. They are awfully liberal – heck, they consider me almost a Republican by comparison."

Tony shrugged. "I didn't say I always agreed with them. So you ended up with McCready?"

"Yep. At the time, they needed a reporter in Africa, and the fellow noticed that I spoke some Afrikaans. He called me within the week, and by the end of the month I'd wrapped things up at _Vanity Fair_ and was on my way to Johannesburg." She raised her hands as if to say, _go figure_.

"That _is_ an unlikely turn of events. So where did you learn Afrikaans?"

"My grandfather – he emigrated to the U.S. from South Africa in 1949. Jan Smuts had just set up apartheid, and Grandpa couldn't stomach it. So Jan _Eberhardt_ moved his whole family to North Dakota of all places, getting his name misspelled in the process. And when my parents moved to Virginia in '75, right after I was born, he tagged along too and I got to spend a good chunk of my childhood with him."

"That must've been great." Howard Stark was over fifty when Tony was born, and his father had long since passed on. "So how was Africa?"

Christine's expression dampened at the question. "Well ... you know the comment the Onion newspaper made once about Brazil – 'people at their most beautiful, humanity at its ugliest'? That's a pretty good description of what I saw in Africa too. My beat was pretty much anything south of the Sahara, and whenever there wasn't a major news story to cover, it was my responsibility to come up with something worthy of a feature. So I was all over the place – a funeral of a politician in Zimbabwe, a peace accord in the Congo, a shooting war in Sierra Leone. I'd interview Bushmen tribal leaders, some of the most peaceful folks you'd ever meet ... and then the next week I'd be hunkered down in a basement with machine-gun fire going off overhead, trying to get a quote from a Somali warlord. You name it, I saw it. Even got to meet Nelson Mandela once before he died. Very briefly, and only as part of a receiving line, but still ... I shook hands with Nelson Mandela!"

Tony really enjoyed the glow on her face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun with a woman, especially not with all his clothes on. "I only met him once myself – same situation as yours, reception line. Remember, back in the '80s, how everyone expected that South Africa was going to collapse into a bloodbath? He could've made that happen. It's to his credit that he chose a more peaceful path, and got everyone else to go along with it. Talk about earning a Nobel Peace Prize." He held up his glass. "To peace."

Christine lifted hers as well, but with a slight smirk. "Peace through superior firepower?"

"Peace ... however we can achieve it." They clinked glasses, and both took a sip before Tony continued. "You know, we've probably visited a lot of the same hot spots. I don't think I'm giving too much away to say that I've been in Mogadishu a couple of times, plus Kananga, Goma, all over Uganda, ..." He saw her face darken at the mention of Uganda, and decided to move on. "Yamoussoukro, Monrovia ..."

"Oh, Monrovia! That was a nasty situation – I wasn't even allowed to go in there! No white reporters were ..." A series of foreign-trade problems for the Liberian government the previous year had led to angry mobs attacking and burning embassies in the country's capital. It was three months before it was safe to be a Caucasian in Liberia again – during that season, too many people there had assumed that pale skin was automatically a sign of foreign oppression.

"I'll tell you, I was glad to be fully armored – it was a three-ring circus, only with gasoline bombs! How did you get along so well in Africa, though? I mean, being obviously from elsewhere ..."

Christine nodded understandingly. "Actually, in most cases being white was an advantage. Especially in civil-war situations, Caucasians are largely assumed to either be with aid organizations or part of the press corps. Let's face it," she added with a chuckle, "businessmen usually high-tail it out when the bullets start flying. You're an exception to that rule."

"That's because I'm usually over there to get the bullets to _stop_ flying, or at least to get someone else away from them." Tony shrugged. "I know, kind of an odd hobby for a weapons dealer."

"Well, you must not be an ordinary weapons dealer, then," Christine riposted. Then she took another drink and turned more serious. "You know, you really _have_ changed. You're clearly not the same guy who reveled in the nickname 'Merchant of Death'."

"And you're not the same woman who accused me of war profiteering." Tony sighed. "What was it Heinlein once said, about how much mature wisdom resembles being too tired?"

"I think from the sound of it, we've both seen enough in the last few years to _make_ us tired." Christine suddenly found herself having to suppress a yawn, then checked her watch. "Speaking of which, what time is it ... oh, wow, it's past midnight! The time sure flew."

"It did for me, too – but then I'd attribute that to the great company ..."

"Ah-ah – flattery will get you nowhere. At least, not tonight." Christine raised her glass, drained it, then looked at the empty thoughtfully. "Oh, dear. I haven't been out drinking in a while – I'm not going to be in any shape to drive. Better call a cab." She took out her cell phone to do just that.

"I'll give you a ride home if you want." Sensing her suspicion, he added, "No strings attached."

Christine thought about it for a moment, then flipped her phone closed and put it back in her clutch. "Well, thank you. I guess since you offer your honor, I'll honor your offer."

Tony realized that the "old Tony" would have replied with "... and all night long it was on 'er and off 'er!" It did come to mind, but he suppressed it just as quickly. _Mature wisdom ..._ "Tell you what – wait here, and I'll have the valet bring the car around."

"No limo?"

"Nah – felt like driving tonight. Back in a moment."

Soon the two of them were in Tony's Audi, heading north on 101 toward Christine's apartment in San Fernando. They were both quiet most of the way, each just enjoying the presence of the other.

When Tony pulled up and parked in front of her complex, Christine stirred and smiled. "Thank you for the ride. I had such a great time tonight talking with you."

"So did I. Um ... I was wondering if I could ... you know, get your number and ..." Tony listened to himself, then cracked up laughing. "Crap, listen to me – I sound like a high-schooler!"

Christine laughed with him, then scribbled her number on a Post-It note and handed it to him. "Well, I appreciate it – because if you hadn't asked, I would've been asking you and sounding even more foolish. So you spared me that."

"All part of the job, ma'am," Tony replied and pantomimed tipping a cowboy hat. "Let me walk you to your door. Just for safety's sake."

"You sure? I should be okay."

"Uh-uh. We superheroes don't take chances we don't have to." That got yet another laugh from her. Tony decided at that moment that he was going to do whatever he could to keep hearing that laugh.

When they arrived at her apartment, Christine sighed contentedly, then leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks again. Talk to you soon."

"Definitely," he replied. He stayed there until she was inside and had closed the door, and then a few seconds more before returning to his car.

All the way home, Tony kept glancing at the Post-It note, now stuck to his dashboard, knowing that, barring some disaster, he was definitely going to follow through on this. Tonight had gone too well not to. Plus his cheek was still tingling where she'd kissed him. _And to think, I never even had to worry about the arc reactor ..._

But what would happen if things continued to go well? Pretty soon she would find out ... _Don't spoil the moment, Tony_, he told himself. Instead, he began thinking about what his next step could be. And immediately, he had an answer.

_Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday would be perfect!_

* * *

(Author's endnotes: a few of the items I used for Christine Everhart's background are taken from the life of Leslie Bibb, the actress who played her; you get to figure out which ones. Also, the "Burning of Atlanta" referred to above is my own concept, which I've never tried because I can't drink. (Trick metabolism.) A variation on it would be a "Sherman Tank," replacing the Absolut Peppar with Tanqueray gin and a drop or two of Southern Comfort. If you're able to handle alcohol and are looking for adventure, try these combinations and tell me how they come out.)


	4. A Drive

Second Chances

Chapter 4

* * *

For all standard disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1.

* * *

To do as much as Tony Stark expected of himself, he often had to make sacrifices.

In the case of the week after the Red Cross event, it meant that Monday was wall-to-wall meetings. Meetings with Research & Development, with the Iron Man Green design team, with Sales, with the Medical division (over further refinements to the sonic paralyzer, for use in emergency rooms), with Acquisitions (a couple of electronics firms were on the market that might be nice synergistic pickups), topped off by a Tuesday morning conference call with the Stark board. And Wednesday, he had to be in Washington, D.C. for hearings before a House subcommittee regarding Iron Man Green, hearings that might extend into Thursday. There went over half the week, even if nothing else happened.

But that left Tuesday free from about 11 a.m. on, which Tony had made sure stayed open for something that, while technically counting as "work," was going to most likely be an awful lot of fun. And he now had an obvious way to make it even more enjoyable.

The information on the Post-It note had quickly gotten programmed into his cell phone, and between meetings Monday afternoon he used it. "Hello?"

"Christine, Tony Stark."

"Hi! How's it going?"

"Up to my butt in alligators at the moment, but I think I'll still get the swamp drained." She laughed. Pauline Collins, walking behind Tony, shook her head at him. He smiled, shrugged at his assistant and continued. "What does your schedule look like tomorrow?"

"Ummm ... I have an appointment early in the morning, but otherwise my dance card is open."

"Great! Want to go for a drive?"

"A drive?"

"Sure. I've got one place I need to go tomorrow afternoon, but besides that we can just spend time wherever. Grab dinner somewhere if we're out that late ..."

"Hmmm ... so what's the one place you need to go?"

Tony paused for a moment. This was going to force him to explain why he'd be spending half a day out on the road. Oh well, press on. "Auto Club Speedway over in Fontana."

Christine was laughing again. "Wha-a-a-at?"

"Stark Automotive's first prototype is on the way down here right now, and I get to test it out ... and show it off a little. Company president's privilege. So are you game?"

He could hear her smiling over the connection. "You know what? Let's do it! When are you picking me up?"

"How's 12 noon sound? We'll hit Fontana first thing, then the rest of the day is our own."

"It's a date. I'll see you then!"

"Looking forward to it. Until then ..." They said their goodbyes, and Tony hung up ... to see Pauline with a smile on her face, looking at him strangely. "What?"

Pauline said nothing, just walked past him into the next meeting, still shaking her head and smiling.

Tony followed, slightly aggravated. "What?!?" But she never did explain.

* * *

"This thing is _sweet_!" Wally Dreiberg exclaimed as he walked around the back of the car. "Amelia and I stopped in Monterey on the way down, and everyone – I mean _ev-e-ry-one_ – was asking us about it!"

He and Tony were looking over the prototype for the Stark Vellon, which Wally had driven into Tony's garage that morning. Black and sleek, it looked like something Lamborghini would build if they were trying to aim for the general market instead of just millionaires. But one thing was well ahead of anything Lamborghini (or anybody else) could offer: the arc reactor that ran the whole enterprise, which could be seen through a round glass window in the top of the hood. The car was built to do anything a sports car could do, with no emissions other than heated air dissipated by the cooling fans.

"So you and Amelia enjoyed your trip?" Stark Automotive's plant was in Fremont, California, across the bay from San Francisco – an old General Motors facility that Stark Industries had bought on the cheap when GM went into bankruptcy years earlier. The engineers there had called on Friday to say that the Mark 1 Vellon was ready for his personal road-testing, and as a reward for the successful Iron Man Blue demo (among other things) Tony had sent Wally and his wife up to San Francisco, put them up at an expensive hotel, and had them drive the car down all day Monday.

"Absolutely, sir. She sends about a thousand thank yous!"

"Hey, my pleasure. So you ready to get into the mix on Iron Man Green now?"

"Of course, sir – except ..."

_Here we go again_, Tony thought. "Look, Wally, I'm not going to force you to work with Colonel Rhodes. But for crying out loud, you really need to let that go." Over a year ago, during Wally's bachelor party, Rhodey (three sheets to the wind – or maybe three dozen) had popped off about how Wally was "gettin' hisself a _biiiiiig_ ol' heifer!" Granted, Amelia _was_ 5'8" and around 250 pounds, but it was still an insensitive thing to say; if Wally liked her that way, who was anyone else to judge? Rhodey apologized when he was informed of his indiscretion (he didn't remember much the next day), but Wally had never totally forgiven him for it.

"I suppose," he said with a sigh. "But how would you feel if it was your bride-to-be?"

"Well, first I'd have to consider the source ...," Tony replied, and Wally had to suppress a snort of surprise. "More to the point, I'd have to consider how many vodka & Red Bulls had _gone into_ the source. And I'd try to remember some of the terrible things I said in the past when I was sloshed. I really think that if he'd known how you'd react, and he'd been sober, he'd have sooner died than say it."

Another sigh. "You're right, sir. So did you want me to go with you to Washington tomorrow?" Rhodey was going to be joining Tony before the congressional subcommittee; that, Tony mused, was likely the reason for Wally's concern.

"No, I want you to re-immerse yourself in the plans for Green before you have to talk to any politicians about it. I'm taking Bill Riva with me – he's the head of the project anyway." William Ginter Riva had been so sure he'd be fired for helping Obadiah Stane build the Ironmonger suit – the one Obie tried to use to kill Tony and Pepper – that he'd already typed a letter of resignation, and tried to give it to Tony the day after the now-legendary press conference. Tony wouldn't hear of it – Riva had been following orders, had no idea what the suit would be used for, and therefore shouldn't be held responsible. Besides, it had been a good design job, and Tony had never shied away from talent. Instead of giving him the sack, Tony put Riva to work on adapting his design for use as military armor, which eventually led to both Iron Man Blue and Green. "Now hop in – I'll drop you off at HQ before I head over to Fontana."

Soon enough, Wally was back at work, and Tony was pulling up in front of Christine's complex. She was already waiting out front for him, dressed casually in a red blouse, jeans and Western-style boots. She came toward the car, then slowed to a stop a few feet away. "Well! This is ... very different ..."

Tony put the car in park and got out. "You know, the word 'different' can be interpreted in many ways ..." He walked around the front to open the passenger door for her. That impressed her, he could tell.

Eyebrows raised, Christine slid into the passenger seat and put on her seat belt. "Thank you. I mean 'different' as in 'I've never seen a car like this before'. So this is the Stark prototype, huh?"

"Yes indeed," Tony replied as he popped back into the driver's seat and secured himself. "We're calling it the Vellon. Full-electric, arc-reactor-powered, zero emissions ... and no weapons," he added with a wink.

Christine grinned. "Very nice. But I've never seen an electric with any powaaaaagh!"

Tony had suddenly whipped the Vellon back into traffic. Once it was in the flow, he glanced over at her and smiled. "Enough power for you?"

Christine stared at him, open-mouthed, for several seconds before finally laughing. "THAT was NOT fair!" she finally replied.

"We're hoping that Ford and Toyota will say the same thing. Have you eaten already?"

"No, and after that it's a good thing I didn't!" She laughed and turned to Tony, and realized that he looked ... ashamed? She wasn't expecting an _embarrassed_ Tony Stark ...

"I'm sorry, Christine, I just ..."

"No, no, it's okay – no damage done! Besides, I understand about boys and their toys. It's all right."

The "boys and their toys" line made Tony smile, but she could tell he was still shaken up. "Well ... at least let me make it up to you by buying you lunch. Your choice – where do you want to go?"

"You don't have to do that, Tony, but since you're offering ..." She pointed to a sign near the upcoming onramp to I-210.

Tony looked. "Really?" She nodded. "I guess I expected something more expensive."

"Hey, sometimes a girl just wants a burger," Christine said with a shrug. "Hope you brought cash."

He had, and a few minutes later they were up on the highway with two sacks of food from Carl's Jr. Tony waited until he'd worked his way into the traffic pattern and turned on the cruise control before spreading a napkin in his lap and beginning to unwrap his sandwich one-handed.

Christine stopped halfway through her cheeseburger to remark, "That was a little strange."

"It was?" Tony replied. His brow furrowed. "Wait, what was?"

"How embarrassed you got when I commented on that jackrabbit start. You were blushing – over a little thing like that." She shook her head. "It wasn't ... the Tony Stark I remembered wouldn't have been bothered by me mouthing off like that."

Tony nodded and thought for a moment. "You're right. The old Tony Stark would've mouthed off right back. He might've told you if you didn't like it, you could get out. He probably would've seethed about it for hours. And he likely would have gone and gotten drunk, just to prove ... hell, I don't even know what it would be proving." He sighed. "Pulling that stunt without even warning you first, just to show off ... that was also something the old Tony would do. And that's why I was embarrassed, because the old Tony was a complete shit, if you don't mind my saying."

"Not complete," Christine replied.

Tony's eyes flicked toward her, sure that she was joking.

She wasn't; the look on her face was dead serious. "You did have a lot of character traits that were ... less than sterling. I could list a bunch of them, I suppose, but there's no point. The point is, if that was all there was to 'the old Tony,' I would have walked off after that first interview. I wouldn't have come home with you that night, that's for sure. And I certainly wouldn't have brought you those pictures of Gulmira, hoping to prick your conscience. I knew even then that there was something more underneath all that bluster. Something better. And I think I was right."

"But ..."

Christine cut him off. "But it doesn't mean you have to reject every part of who you used to be just become some of it was unsavory. It's okay to still be a guy who's impressed with a car's horsepower and wants to display it – it doesn't mean you're turning into an ogre. No one expects you to be perfect."

Tony chewed the inside of his lower lip, thinking. "Except me, maybe."

"Maybe. That'll have to be between you and your therapist. But my opinion, for what it's worth, is that if your worst trait these days is a tendency to show off your latest technological marvel ... then you're doing pretty well." She took a deep breath, then added with a touch of irony, "End of lecture."

Tony was quiet for over a minute before he finally spoke. "Thank you. I needed that perspective."

"You push yourself hard, Tony. You have a reputation for it. So do I. But one thing I've had to learn recently is that it doesn't hurt to stop for a moment and appreciate where you are and what you've accomplished."

Tony nodded. "I'm ... gonna have to remember that." He took a deep breath.

"So let's get back to having fun, okay? Tell me about this car – like, what are all the buttons on the steering wheel for?"

Smiling, Tony began to describe some of the other innovations they had incorporated into the Vellon – the five-option programmable cruise control (all those buttons on the steering wheel), a temperature-sensitive AC/heating system, the breathable plastic mesh seat and steering wheel surfaces ("looks like leather, feels like leather, but won't burn you in the middle of summer"), even a photosensitive windshield and windows that tinted slightly in bright sunshine. From there, the conversation drifted into how Stark Industries had decided to get into the car business and what the prospects looked like for the industry as a whole. He was impressed by the grasp Christine had on the economic climate, and how he didn't need to explain too many of the engineering terms. It made him wonder what she'd been doing at _Vanity Fair_ instead of a more serious publication all those years ago.

Tony got to demonstrate some other features as they took the Cherry Avenue exit from 210. A truck had apparently dropped a broken pallet onto the offramp. "Tony, watch out!" Christine cried.

"Not a problem," Tony said calmly. "Watch." And sure enough, the Vellon rolled over the half-flattened pallet like it was barely there. It didn't even feel like much of a speed bump.

"What ... ?" Christine began.

Tony stopped at the red light and began holding up fingers. "Computerized suspension system. Puncture-proof tires – standard. And a little more clearance than the average sports car."

Christine leaned back in her seat and grinned. "_Very_ nice," she repeated

"Oh, but you haven't seen yet how fast this will go."

"Well, that's why we're heading to the speedway, right?"

The light turned green, and Tony nodded. "Right," he said as he pulled onto Cherry.

The track at Auto Club Speedway, when it wasn't being used or prepared for stock car, drag or hot rod races or classic car shows, sat empty most of the time. But if you were able to pay for it on an off-day, you could use it, provided you were willing to cover any damages and not hold the management liable. Tony, not averse to throwing money around, had rented it for the entire afternoon. There was only one minor issue when he showed up at the gate and presented his pass. "Good to see you, Mr. Stark – but we weren't told about anyone else coming."

Tony was nonplussed. "We weren't aware we needed to tell you about anyone else coming."

The security guard wasn't budging. "If you're gonna bring a date in here, sir, I'm gonna have to get some sort of authorization."

To Tony, the guard seemed like one of that plague of the business world: the natural bureaucrat, the type who doesn't care if Armageddon happens as long as all the paperwork is submitted beforehand. He was about to give him a piece of his mind when Christine interrupted his thoughts. "You know, I don't think he knows who I am," she remarked, loudly enough for the rent-a-cop to hear. "Sir?"

The guard came closer to the window. "Yeah?"

She reached across Tony, sticking out her hand. "Christine Everhart, _Car & Driver_. We're doing a piece on how women are treated by staff at NASCAR tracks, especially women writers. I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. ... Kreski," she added, reading his name off his uniform badge.

Tony enjoyed watching the guard blanch under the glare of Christine's predatory smile. "Um ... I'm afraid I ... uh, really can't comment on that ..."

"Oh, but I'm sure you can ..."

Tony shrugged at the guard. "If you let her hang around this guard shack, Officer, she _will_ get her quotes. She's a pit bull."

"I see. Er, let me open the gate for you, Mr. Stark. Sorry for the delay."

"No problem," Tony replied as the gate opened. Once inside, he turned to Christine, who had a very pleased look on her face. "Not bad. Out of curiosity, have you ever actually worked for _Car & Driver_?"

"I wish," she replied wistfully. "But then, he didn't need to know that, did he?"

Tony just laughed as he headed for the track. They didn't do much talking in the next hour and a half as he put the car through its paces, though he did make sure to warn Christine whenever he was about to attempt something jarring, like executing a hairpin turn or testing the antilock brakes. The speedway attendants, part of Stark Industries' deal with track management, didn't need to do anything until the end, when Tony pulled up and had them replace the now-worn tires for the journey home (he'd had a Stark employee bring extras there the previous day). Shortly before 3:30 in the afternoon, they headed back, with Christine giving Officer Kreski a little wave as they departed.

On the way west, they talked about a little of everything until arriving at a Japanese restaurant near the Santa Monica Pier, an old favorite of Tony's. Seated at a table after placing their orders, Christine brought the conversation back around to the Vellon. "So how much do you think it'll cost when it comes out?"

"We've got the accountants working on that right now, so I'm not totally sure. But if I had to guess, I'd say MSRP will be ... about $38,000."

"Oh, I expected it would be more!"

"Actually, it'll only that high because we'll be working to recoup our initial costs. If it sells well enough, we might be able to drop the price a few thousand the second year. Same with the Ferron – have I mentioned the Ferron?" Christine shook her head, and Tony continued. "Sport-utility vehicle – we're building them both on the same frame, which saves a lot. And so does not having to concern ourselves with gasoline or a battery. Being able to put a miniature power plant under the hood lets you get rid of a lot of other hardware."

"Which also explains how quiet it was. We were doing 160 miles an hour on that track, but I closed my eyes and it sounded like 35 or 40!"

Tony nodded. "The only disadvantage is that with all that stuff gone, the car's kind of light – did you notice that drift when we went into turns?" He leaned slightly to his right to illustrate. "We're going to have to find a way to add some weight for stability. That, and limit the top speed to 85 or 90 – I don't want to put anything on the road that can outrun a police car unless it's another police car."

"That's very responsible. Any plans for a sedan or a compact? Or a police car?"

"We're already working on designs for a pickup truck and a sedan. We should be able to use the same frame for those, too, unless we really decide to get creative. And we can always build a second version of the sedan for use by law enforcement. As for a compact ... what would be the point when ...?"

Christine made a forehead-smacking motion. "... When you don't have to worry about gas mileage? Of course – I hadn't thought it through." Right then, their orders arrived, and several minutes went by as they sampled their food.

One thing kept nagging at the back of Tony's mind, but he waited until he was finished with his meal to ask. "So where did you learn so much about cars?"

Christine smiled nostalgically. "My dad. He ran a Chrysler dealership in the Richmond area, and he loved working with cars, on the job or off. He had a couple at home that he'd restored when I was a kid, was always tinkering with them, and I got to help."

"What models?"

Her smile widened as the memories came back. "A '63 Pontiac Catalina, cherry red. And a '64 Aston Martin DB5."

Tony joined her in the smile. "The car in 'Goldfinger,' right?"

Christine nodded enthusiastically. "Dad loved Bond movies too." Then she turned sad. "I still miss him."

Tony felt a pang, thinking of the accident that took his own parents' lives. "What happened?"

"Pancreatic cancer. Dad hated going to the doctor for anything, so by the time they finally caught it, it was too late to treat. I was only 14 when he died. Three years later, Mom married Paul, and one of the first things he did was sell off those two cars." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to bring down the mood ..."

"It's okay," Tony replied, laying his hand on hers. "We all have stuff we're dealing with – it's the human condition. The only reason I don't talk about mine as much is because it's been in all the magazines already, so everyone knows it." That got a momentary chuckle from her. "But with all that economic and engineering knowledge, how did you end up at _Vanity Fair_?"

"Oh, that was easy. They made me the best offer when I graduated from Brown. The pay was good – but most of all, they wanted me based in L.A. Believe me, when you go through four winters in Providence, Rhode Island, you learn to appreciate good weather!"

"I hear that one," Tony affirmed. He lived through three Cambridge, Massachusetts winters while attending MIT, and still considered it three too many.

They both decided to pass on dessert, and headed back to the Vellon after Tony paid the check. "I've had a terrific time today, Tony," Christine said once they were back on the road, "but for some reason I'm bushed. I hope you don't mind if I call it an evening."

"No, I understand – we've done a lot. Besides, I need to head to the airport in a few hours so I can be in Washington in the morning. Congressional subcommittee meeting – they're trying to find lower-cost alternatives to current military equipment. I get to do the soft-shoe for them for a day or two."

"Fuuuuun," she said ironically. "So when will you be back?"

"Thursday night at the latest."

"I'll tell you what – why don't I pick _you_ up Friday evening? We can get together with some folks I know. My friend Sandra – the one who's on the local Red Cross board? – has been dying to meet you."

Tony tried to suppress a smile, but couldn't. "So you want to show me off to your friends, huh?"

"Uh-huh. You up for it?"

Tony thought for a second, then said, "Sure, why not? Pick me up at home, say, 5:30 on Friday?"

"I'll be there!" Too soon, they were back at Christine's apartment complex, and once again Tony was prepared to walk her to her door. But this time, she demurred. "It's okay, Tony – I don't want you to take any chance that this spectacular car will get stolen. Don't let it out of your sight!" She gave him another kiss on the cheek – and received a kiss on the hand – before getting out and heading into the complex.

All the way back to Malibu, Tony pondered the events of the day, and the three days that preceded it. He couldn't remember when he'd last enjoyed himself so much in anyone's company, not even in his free-swinging, pre-Afghanistan days. Certainly he couldn't recall feeling so free to let his guard down. Spending the time with Christine had been ... "life-affirming" seemed like a trite phrase to use, but it did fit.

But come tomorrow, it would have to take a back seat to the rest of his life. He would be in Washington, trying to sell a bunch of federal representatives on the benefits – and cost savings – of Iron Man Green. Christine would be working on her book or kaffeeklatsching with her friend Sandra. And the Vellon would be in a semi-trailer, being toted back to Fremont. The clock having struck twelve, Cinderella would have to get back to scrubbing floors, at least temporarily.

At least until Friday night. Already, Tony was looking forward to Friday night.


	5. A Hearing

Second Chances

Chapter 5

* * *

For all of the usual disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1.

* * *

Tony had never needed much sleep, so he was able to grab enough on his private plane on the flight from L.A. to Washington, D.C. He woke up while they were still over the Appalachian Mountains, and was able to do some stretching exercises, take a shower and put away a Danish and coffee before they began their approach to Reagan National Airport.

At which point he woke up William Ginter Riva. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty – time to get it together."

Riva emitted a groan that sounded like a crypt opening. "What time is it?"

Tony checked his watch. "About 7:05 local time. We should be landing in about twenty minutes. If you want to wash up, Bill, you'd better move fast."

"Ugh," Riva replied as he levered himself out of his chair and stumbled toward the shower.

Jessie, the stewardess on the plane, came up next to Tony. "Is he going to be all right, sir?"

Tony couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, just a slow riser. You may want to build him a large coffee with a lid for after we land, though."

"No problem, sir." Jessie walked back to the galley, and Tony was left with his thoughts. He was a long way away from the Tony Stark of years before, whose plane featured three flight attendants – and stripper's poles for their use. One of the three now worked for an airline, while another had gone in the other direction and was now employed at a "gentlemen's club" in Las Vegas. (Both had used Tony as a reference, and he'd given them good recommendations.) He had kept Jessie on, with the understanding that her pay would stay the same, but her responsibilities would be limited to actual stewardessing. Jessie had jumped at the chance, and seemed a lot happier for it.

Soon enough, the plane was on the ground, Riva had his caffeine fix and he and Tony, each carrying two valises, were descending the stairs to the tarmac. Waiting for them, standing beside a Humvee in his dress blues, was Colonel Rhodes. "Hey, Tony, Bill! How was your trip?"

"Smooth as glass. So ... we're taking the hum-drum-vee today?"

Rhodey shook his head as an Air Force private opened the rear door for the three men. "With all you went through after you first made that joke ... you still make that joke?"

Tony smirked and shrugged. "Haven't come up with a better one yet. Suggestions?"

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Just get in the vehicle!"

As they pulled out of the airport and headed onto the George Washington Parkway, Tony turned to Rhodey. "So what's the schedule for today? When I talked to Congressman Rosas the other day, he was kind of vague." Rosas, from Texas, was chairman of the House Armed Service Committee's Subcommittee on Air and Land Forces.

Rhodey flashed a knowing grimace. "That's probably because we're way down on their list. I think we're the fourth group scheduled today. And so far this week, this subcommittee has been starting their meetings at ten, and averaging about two hours per group."

Tony pursed his lips and sighed through his nose. "So we'll be fortunate to get in there before the day is out." Rhodey nodded.

Riva shook his head in incomprehension. "So why did they want us to come to Washington so early?" He'd already put away half his coffee, but it had yet to erase the dark circles under his eyes.

Tony shrugged. "Because they can, I guess."

"Your tax dollars at work," Rhodey add with a smile.

Riva groaned and went back to sorting through some papers.

"So we just chill out in Richards' office the whole day while we're waiting?" Congressman Richards, a Southern California representative, was also on the committee and decidedly pro-Stark Industries. Tony figured that had something to do with his ideology – Richards was a noted "hawk" – and something to do with the donations Stark Industries had made to his re-election campaigns, and those of his father and predecessor, over the years.

"Pretty much." Rhodey sounded resigned to it.

"Eh, no worries. I brought plenty of reading material, and I can make some phone calls. Though if I'd known we were going to have this much free time, I'd have probably had Pauline come too. We could've gotten the schedule for the whole next month arranged."

Rhodey seemed to muse on that for a moment before following it up. "I'm glad she's working out for you, Tony. I was worried what you'd do without Pepper cleaning up after you."

"Well, I have gotten better at cleaning up after myself. But Pauline has done a great job all around. Thank you for recommending her."

Rhodey heard his answer, but wasn't really listening. He'd noticed that for once, Tony didn't wince when Pepper's name came up. "Um, Tony ... now forgive me if this is a little personal ..."

Instinctively, Tony knew what his friend was about to ask him. His eyes flicked for a moment toward Riva, who was still only half-awake, grumbling to himself and leafing through printouts. "We can talk about that later."

Rhodey tried to hide a smile, and failed. "Okay ..."

The trio arrived at the Longworth House Office Building and took the elevator up to Richards' office, where one of the secretaries led them to a conference room in which to spread out. Riva took "spreading out" literally – he pulled a few chairs together, laid down and quickly dropped back to sleep.

Tony only smirked and shook his head. "Some guys just can't hack this jet-setting life. I hope Jessie didn't give him decaf, or we may never get him back." He sat down, opened one of his bags and, instead of rifling papers like Riva had, pulled out Jack McDevitt's latest Alex Benedict novel, which he'd been wanting to read for awhile but hadn't had the time.

He didn't immediately get the chance to, either. "So who is she?"

Tony answered Rhodey's question with a blank stare. "Who is who?"

"Don't even try that with me, Tone. I can tell. You're happy. You're more relaxed than I've seen you in years. The last time we testified before a congressional committee, you acted like you were cramming for an exam, and this time you're kicking back with a novel. And besides, you didn't cloud up when I mentioned Pepper. So give it up – who's the girl?"

"Am I that obvious?" Tony remarked in a mock-hurt voice.

"To me, yes, you are. Now are you gonna just tell me, or do I have to use heightened interrogation techniques?"

"Let's hold off on the waterboarding, okay?" Tony said with a smile. He took a few moments before continuing. "This is top secret, your ears only, you understand?"

"I'll keep it on the down low, I promise."

Tony glanced over at a snoring Riva before leaning toward Rhodey and stage-whispering, "Christine Everhart."

Rhodey looked confused. "I know that name from somewhere ..."

"The press conference ..." In Tony's life, there was _the_ press conference, and all the other press conferences. He knew his friend would know which one he meant.

Comprehension dawned. "The one who ...?" Tony nodded, and Rhodey shook his head, grinning like a madman. "Didn't you hook up with her right before Gulmira?" Another nod, and now Rhodey was shaking with suppressed laughter. "Woooooo-ee, Tony ... I gotta hear this story."

"I don't know that there's much to tell. We ran into each other last Saturday at the big Red Cross gala in L.A. We started talking, catching up, and ... we just hit it off. Tuesday, I took her for a drive, testing out the Vellon prototype. We had dinner afterward. And we're getting together Friday night for ... well, I don't know what, she's making the plans." Tony paused, shrugged. "That's about it."

"'That's about it?'" Rhodey was incredulous.

"Rhodey, I'm sorry, but you're not getting some steamy locker-room story." Tony made a show of returning to his book. "Besides, this time around we haven't done anything beyond holding hands."

Rhodey's eyebrows went even higher. "That's different for you, man."

"Well ... _I'm_ different now." Tony paused and thought. "Come to think of it, so is she. We haven't talked about it, but I'd guess she's been through some stuff, too. Regardless, I don't think either of us is in a rush."

"That's all right ..."

"Glad you approve," Tony replied snidely.

"Seriously, though ... I'm glad this is happening. You really did have me scared for awhile there. I mean, I like what you've done with your life these last few years, but ... I was worried you weren't really ..." Rhodey waved a hand around, unsure of the next word.

Tony made a guess. "Living?"

Rhodey thought about it for a moment. "Yeah. 'Balanced" might be a better word. Or some combination of the two. But ... hell, you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, Platypus. And thanks again for reminding me in Dubai." Tony re-opened the McDevitt. "But rest assured that you'll see me in 'cramming for an exam' mode after lunch. No point doing it now, since we're not going on stage until afternoon at the earliest." He shook his head in exasperation at the ways of governments.

Rhodey settled back into his chair and stared at the ceiling. "Man, I should've brought a book."

"Why didn't you ask?" Tony reached into his satchel and pulled out another paperback. "Here."

Rhodey couldn't help grinning. "_Starship Troopers_? Dag, I haven't read that in ages! Thanks!"

"Well, I figure the whole 'mechanical suit' angle fits pretty well with what we're pitching to Congress today. Rather prescient on Heinlein's part, considering he wrote it over fifty years ago."

"Yeah, he was pretty sharp. For a Navy man." That was the last Tony heard from Rhodey for a while, as the colonel re-immersed himself in the adventures of Juan Rico.

In fact, neither of them came up for air until noon, when Congressman Richards came in to tell them the good news and bad news. The good news was that lunch had arrived, from a Greek deli down the street. The bad news was that the subcommittee had blown the whole morning on the first group scheduled to appear – and he did mean "blown"; their proposal was largely unworkable – so the chances of Tony getting in today was even lower than before. Richards apologized profusely for the inconvenience, and was pleasantly surprised when Tony not only accepted it, but waved it off as if it were no big deal.

The four men (Riva had finally roused from his slumber a few minutes before the representative's arrival) had a relatively quiet lunch before Richards had to head back to the Capitol for the reconvening of the subcommittee. After he left, Tony made good on his earlier promise to Rhodey, breaking out the statistics and specifications for Iron Man Green so they would have it fresh in their minds for any questions the representatives threw at them. A good thing, it turned out, as between the three of them they found a couple of details they'd forgotten to check. Tony called Wally, back in Los Angeles with the rest of the team, to do some quick research and get them the answers, just in case.

Shortly after 2 p.m., they were deep into the specs for the mini-rockets that could be fired from the suit's forearms when one of Richards' aides burst in with a message from their sponsor. The second group's presentation had gone more quickly than expected, the subcommittee was already well into discussions with the third, and they needed to haul tail over to the Capitol building immediately.

Tony smiled and looked at Rhodey as they gathered up printouts. "And you were concerned."

"Oh, shut up." But he was smiling too. Even Riva had a grin as they packed everything up and prepared to head out. Everything was fine until Tony suddenly found himself getting woozy. He put a hand on the conference room table to steady himself.

Riva was the first to notice. "Are you all right, boss?"

Tony furrowed his brow, confused. "Yeah, I think so. I must've stood up too fast or ... something." He shook his head, still surprised at the event. "I'm not going to worry about it now. C'mon, guys – we've got work to do."

The aide led them to the elevator, then down below the Longworth Building to an underground walkway that members of Congress used to get across Independence Avenue to the Capitol proper without having to deal with the _hoi polloi_. Within five minutes, they were in an anteroom to where the subcommittee was meeting ... and it was time to sit and wait again. They hauled out their notes and resumed studying.

But Rhodey wasn't quite ready to go back to Iron Man Green, not just yet. "You sure you're okay, Tony? You looked awfully dizzy for a minute there."

Tony shrugged. "As far as I know, I'm okay. Just feeling a little tired – maybe lunch isn't agreeing with me. Anyway, we don't have time right now for me to be out of it."

"Tony ..."

Tony turned to him and raised one eyebrow. His voice was soft but firm. "Rhodey, no offense, but if I want a nurse, I'll pick one that's cuter than you. _They_," he added, pointing to the door behind which the subcommittee was meeting, "don't care how I feel, and _they_ are what we have to focus on right now. If I need to rest – and I'm not saying I do – I can rest after we testify. So let's get cracking." He returned to the documents they were studying, and Rhodey reluctantly followed.

As it turned out, Tony was right – they didn't have time for distractions. Within a half-hour, they were in front of over twenty-five members of Congress, walking them through the capabilities of the proposed Iron Man Green suit. Part of the presentation was a recording of the Iron Man Blue demo in San Diego the previous weekend, since the two suits were similar in composition. But, they explained, the Green model would be a little more sophisticated and have a lot more weaponry – if anything, it would be more like Tony's personal suit than the law-enforcement model.

Then the questions began, with a softball from Congressman Richards. "You say Stark Industries has tested this suit, or at least a similar suit, on how it can withstand bullets – but what about larger ordnance?"

Tony and Rhodey both smiled, and Tony took the question. "We've tested the armor with rocket-propelled grenades – not only didn't they damage it, they didn't even knock it over. A mortar round will knock it over, but won't damage it."

Richards followed up. "So what would it take to damage the proposed Iron Man Green suit?"

"Our testing team finally resorted to renting a tank ..." Titters came from a few committee members. "They found that an armor-piercing or high-explosive shell will in fact do the trick. But nothing less than that. And if the pilot's reflexes are good, they'll actually be able to use the suit's capabilities to get out of the way of a tank round. I've done it myself."

Another representative, an East Coast Democrat whose name Tony couldn't remember, chimed in. "You make it sound like it's some sort of super-suit!"

"Well, yes ..." Tony replied with a bemused smirk as several members laughed in embarrassment at their colleague's clueless statement. "Seriously, the armor to be used in Iron Man Green is just as tough as that used in _the_ Iron Man suit. It will be heavier in weight, but that's only because we'll be using more steel and less titanium/gold alloy, to keep the cost at reasonable levels."

Republican Congressman Beaulieu of Louisiana was next. "Will the Iron Man Green have stealth technology incorporated?"

William Ginter Riva answered it. "Something this size doesn't really need extra stealth technology. We're talking about an object seven feet tall at most – the best military and civilian radar in the world won't pick up anything that small."

Congressman Wilkins, an Illinois Democrat, spoke up. "Now, you say that Iron Man Green would actually be able to replace the use of fighter planes in certain situations, is that correct?"

Rhodey, being a member of the Air Force, stepped in. "Yes, Congressman. In fact, when Tony presented the concept to me, I was talking about the weakness of using drone flights because they don't have the split-second decision-making capacity a human pilot has. Tony's response was 'how about getting rid of the plane and keeping the pilot?'" That got a few more chuckles from the subcommittee.

Wilkins continued. "But how well will a metal suit that's only 'seven feet tall at most' be able to handle a head-to-head confrontation with a full-sized fighter jet?"

Tony looked at Rhodey with one eyebrow up, as if to say, _should we tell them about that little incident over Gulmira?_

Rhodey thought for a second, then decided to go for it. "Well, as it happens, Congressman, we did a training exercise a few years back, pitting two F-22 jets against Mr. Stark and an earlier version of his suit. What version was that one, Tony, the Mach Three?

Tony felt his energy level continue to drop. _C'mon, superhero, buck up!_ "Um, yes, it was the Mach Three." Then, as an aside to the committee: "Iron Man Green will be based on the more advanced Mach Five model."

As Tony poured himself a glass of water, Rhodey went on. "The exercise was educational, especially when one of the F-22s made high-speed contact with the Iron Man suit. The suit was undamaged, and thankfully the pilot of the plane ejected and was unharmed. But the plane was a loss. In fact, Tony, I think you still owe us a jet ..."

"Hey, _he_ hit _me_," Tony automatically riposted as grins spread throughout the committee. _A good sign_, Tony thought. _Now if I can just stay focused for the rest of the hearing ..._

Then Elena Teixeira cleared her throat, and Tony stopped worrying about distractions. A Democrat from northern California, Teixeira was one of the senior members of the subcommittee and an outspoken opponent of increased defense spending. Furthermore, she had the ear of both President Obama and the chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. If they couldn't win her over, they would be facing an uphill battle at best.

Teixeira looked over her glasses at Tony in the manner of a school principal staring down an unruly student. "I have two questions for you, Mr. Stark. First of all, while this certainly is a powerful suit you're proposing to manufacture, I'm concerned about what could be done with it in the wrong hands."

Tony had expected that objection. "A logical concern, Congresswoman. One way we're dealing with that is that we're not offering to build Iron Man Green for anyone except the United States military. Stark Industries has received inquiries from several foreign governments, and we've told them, politely but firmly, no."

"I'm not asking about other governments, Mr. Stark," Teixeira interrupted. "I was thinking more along the lines of enemy operatives, spies, insurgents. I would not like the thought of something like this ending up in the hands of, say, the Waziri liberationists in Pakistan."

"I understand completely. One of the features of Iron Man Green will be a special security transponder. First, it will be coded to the retina scan and fingerprints of the person authorized to use that specific suit. Since for safety reasons each suit's interior will be customized to fit its operator, it will simply be part of the customization process. In addition, the transponder can be used to shut down a suit that's being operated without authorization – say, if an officer tries to use it to go on a rogue mission, or even take revenge on an ex-spouse." That last part got a couple of snickers, which Tony ignored. "The commander of the unit to which the suit is assigned would need only to contact Stark Industries, and we would send the suit a code via satellite that would automatically land it, lock it out of operation mode and send its coordinates to said commander for pickup. This transponder will also be a standard part of our Iron Man Blue model."

Teixeira looked skeptical. "So we are to trust Stark Industries with a code that can shut down a valuable piece of military hardware?"

"I'm surprised, Congresswoman, that you would object to the concept of civilian oversight of the military." A few Republicans laughed at that, before the subcommittee chair called for order. "In all seriousness, it wouldn't make any sense for Stark Industries to shut off a product that we _want_ you to use. There's literally no profit in that, and while Stark Industries is a patriotic organization, we're not a charity organization."

Teixeira seemed willing to accept that. "My second question, since you brought up the subject of profit, concerns the cost of this piece of hardware. We do, after all, have a budget deficit that we are trying to at least keep in check. Why do you think we should be spending more money for what you're offering?"

Richards had warned them about that question during lunch; Teixeira was asking it of every presenter. So far, the best most of the others had done was to dance around it. Tony had already decided to hit it head-on. "I was hoping someone would ask that – that may in fact be Iron Man Green's best feature. Our hope is that, instead of costing the government money, it would save money that would otherwise have to be spent on more expensive armaments." Teixeira's eyebrows raised as Bill Riva brought up a graphic series on the overhead projector the Stark team was using. It had a headline that read, "WHAT CAN YOU GET FOR $361 MILLION?"

"The headline," Tony explained, "is taken from the Congressional Budget Office's estimate several years ago of the total cost to purchase and operate an F-22 over the life of the vehicle. Granted, no more F-22s are being built, largely because of their high cost, but it gives us some basis for comparison. Now, for $361 million, you can get on average ..." Bill tapped a key, and the numbers for the F-22 came up. "... one F-22, and use it until it becomes obsolete or inoperable.'

"Go on," Teixeira said impatiently.

"I hasten, Congresswoman. For that same $361 mil," _tap_, "you can purchase and operate _four_ F-35 Joint Strike Fighters for their natural lives. Clearly, the F-35 gives you better bang for your buck than the F-22. But we've been working on what the costs will be for Iron Man Green, and we think that, given an order of at least a hundred – and figuring in an acceptable but not excessive profit – we can offer them for ..." _Tap._ "... about $175,000 apiece."

Tony paused only long enough to enjoy the gasps and mutters of the subcommittee members before he continued. "Now, since Iron Man Green will be powered by Stark Industries' patented arc reactor technology, there's no cost for fuel. And since the things will be very difficult to break, repair costs are expected to be minimal. There will be some cost for lubricants and other maintenance, resupply of nonstandard ordnance, and you'll need to replace the arc reactor after eight to nine years, given estimated usage. So we figure the cost over the life of the hardware, say, sixteen years, will come out to about," _tap_, "$239,000 per suit. Which means for the cost of one F-22 or four F-35s, you could operate," _tap_, and more gasps, "approximately one thousand, five hundred and ten Iron Man Green suits. Mind, the numbers I've quoted don't include personnel salaries; I figure what you pay your people is your business," he concluded.

There was no applause after he stopped – it wouldn't have fit with the decorum of the event. But Tony could tell that by and large, the committee members were impressed not only with the proposed armor, but also the very low (by defense contracting standards) price tag. Even Teixeira looked pleased. He poured himself another glass of water, and noticed his hand was shaking as he did. Not to mention that his energy was still draining away – he was amazed that he'd gotten through that last bit as steadily as he had. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and it came away drenched in sweat. _What the hell's going on?_

Just for safety's sake, he let Rhodey and Riva answer the remaining questions, which mercifully only went on for another ten minutes. In the meantime, he put away three glasses of ice water and began to get increasingly worried. He'd had food poisoning before, and the flu, and this felt worse than either of those ...

Soon enough Congressman Rosas, the subcommittee chairman, thanked and dismissed them and welcomed a motion to adjourn for the day. Tony, Rhodey and Riva walked back out the way they'd come in. Once he'd closed the door behind them, Rhodey was jubilant. "Man, we killed in there! We blew their minds! Even Teixeira, even Wilkins, and those two have been shooting down _everything_! Way to go, Tony ... Tony? Tony!"

Tony was leaning against the wall by the door, his eyes rolling upward, sweat pouring off his brow. "Yeah ... blew their minds," he whispered.

Rhodey swore under his breath and was about to come to Tony's aid when the door opened again and Elena Teixeira entered. "Gentlemen," she began, looking at Rhodey, "I don't usually do this, but I wanted to tell you how very impressed I was with what you're proposing." She shook Rhodey's hand vigorously. "I just talked briefly with Congressman Richards and we're going to make a bipartisan push for funding an Iron Man Green prototype in the upcoming defense budget. How soon do you think you can build a working model?" Only then did she turn toward Tony.

"October at the latest, I ... guess," Tony replied hoarsely. To Rhodey, he looked like he was going to slide right down the wall.

Teixeira was staring at him wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. "_Madre de Dios_, are you all right?"

_Oh sure, I always celebrate after testifying before Congress by collapsing and breaking out in flop-sweat – that's just how I roll_, Tony thought. But he didn't have the energy left for that much sarcasm. Instead, he replied, "I think I'll be okay. Can you point me toward the bathroom?" Teixeira did, and he lurched in that direction, with Rhodey and Riva quickly catching up to steady him.

When they arrived at the men's room, Tony asked Bill to wait outside, then looked over at a confused Rhodey. "I have a hunch about this," he explained and, leaning against the counter, began to unbutton his shirt. "I can feel heat coming off it – and as much as I trust Bill, I haven't told him I even have it. Uhhh ..."

Rhodey didn't need to ask what "it" was. "How many people do know at this point?"

Tony took a deep breath. It hurt. "You. Pauline. Nick Fury, of course, which means the President probably knows. And one doctor back in California, whom I threatened to neuter if he told anyone. That's all ..." Finishing with the buttons, he pulled the shirt open.

The arc reactor seemed to be operating just fine – no cracks in its case. But the skin of Tony's chest around it was swollen and dry, and a bright, angry red.

Rhodey hissed in sympathy. "What do we do, Tone?"

Tony's brain felt sluggish, like he was pushing his thoughts through swamp mud. "First, help me sit down." He motioned over his shoulder at one of the toilet stalls. "Then call Nick, explain what's going on and ... and see what he says. Quickly ...," he added, and began to fall ...

* * *

_(My apologies to anyone wondering what in tarnation was taking me so long with this chapter. Life just got busy – and it's a good thing it did, in one respect. Originally I was going to have Tony compare the cost of an Iron Man Green only to the F-22 fighter, like the one that he and his suit wiped out over Gulmira. A few days ago before I finished this chapter, the U.S. Senate voted to de-fund the F-22 program in favor of the more practical (and much cheaper) F-35. So if I'd put this up two weeks ago, it'd be outdated already, and boy, would _that_ be embarrassing! So, lucky break there. Chapter 6 coming soon ... I won't leave you in suspense too long ...)_


	6. A Hospital

Second Chances

Chapter 6

* * *

For all of the standard disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1. And for all the readers who missed Christine in Chapter 5, don't fret, she makes a cameo here and comes back in force in Chapter 7. No worries.

* * *

When Tony woke up, he didn't need five seconds to figure out where he was. White walls, fluorescent lights, faraway windows with vertical blinds, curtains hanging from tracks in the ceiling ... every hospital looks the same when you're inside it. Which hospital ... okay, that was still in doubt. But this definitely wasn't the washroom in the Capitol, which was the last thing he remembered before passing out, and it wasn't the house S.H.I.E.L.D. owned in Arlington, where he and Bill Riva were going to stay while in Washington.

"You know, if you wanted a break, all you had to do was say so."

He recognized the voice, but couldn't place its location. He decided to look around to see if he could find it. Now, darn it, where were the controls for his head? They should be around here ... someplace ...

"Dr. Morrison told me you might still be out of it. Take your time."

"Uh-huh," Tony mumbled, still trying to find ... ah, there they were. His head was already turned to the left, so he began to track it to the right, slowly to make sure it didn't float away. In this manner, he located the source of the voice, a huge black man sitting next to his bed. "Hi, Nick."

Nick Fury gave Tony a rare, and knowing, smile. "Hello."

Tony blinked twice, mostly to make sure his eyelids were working properly. So far, so good. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Do you have any idea what you're thanking me for?"

"I ... figure you'll tell me the details. If I need to know 'em." He found himself chuckling foolishly. "Man, I'm doped up pretty good, aren't I?"

Nick nodded. "The doctor said what you needed was antibiotics and rest. And let's face it, knocking Tony Stark out is the only way I know of to make him rest."

"True," Tony admitted. He gently lifted his left arm and noticed an IV tube snaking into it. "'Zat the antibiotics? Or the sleepy juice?"

"The antibiotics. Doc stopped giving you the anesthetic about four hours ago – though he says it does take a while to wear off."

"Ah." Tony took a moment to parse that sentence before he spoke again. "Four hours ago. What time is it now?"

Nick consulted a watch that looked big enough to house a newlywed couple. "Just before 9 a.m. Thursday."

That woke Tony up for a moment. He'd been out for sixteen hours?!? "Damn. Last time I slept that long, I think I was still in a crib." He decided to try his right arm – which thankfully wasn't attached to anything – and gently began to reach toward his chest.

Nick took hold of Tony's wrist and guided it back down to his side. "I know, you want to know what's going on. I'm going to let Dr. Morrison tell you the details, but suffice to say you had a pretty fast-moving infection in the skin around your arc reactor. It's clearing up already, actually – you're in good shape, so Doc was able to slap you with some pretty strong stuff."

Tony's biggest fear clawed to the surface. "Was the infection caused by ..." If the arc reactor led to health problems, most of Stark Industries' diversification plans went right down the tubes – the automotive division, Iron Men Green and Blue, and about a dozen other projects were based around arc-reactor technology.

"No," Nick replied firmly. "The arc reactor didn't cause the infection – at least not directly. So you can put your mind at rest on that."

Tony smiled, took a deep breath – which didn't hurt, a good sign – and sighed in relief. Then his brain noticed that Nick had said something about rest, and ran with it before he could do anything else.

* * *

When Tony woke up again, he felt ... not 100%, but certainly well enough to do anything that didn't involve operating heavy machinery. He tried a few mental exercises – multiplying five-digit numbers, remembering specs for the Jericho missile system, going over the batting order of the 1974 Dodgers – to make sure his brain was as it should be. Then, and only then, did he look for the button to summon a nurse.

The woman who answered the call _was_ cuter than Rhodey. She looked to be in her early fifties, with blonde hair that may have owed as much to Clairol as it did to genetics, but she was clearly in good shape for her age. The name tag on her lab coat read "L. MORRISON". "Good afternoon, Mr. Stark. How are you feeling?"

"All things considered, not bad." Though finding he had slept the morning away, in addition to the previous evening, was a touch disconcerting. "You're Dr. Morrison?"

She smiled at that. "No. I'm _Nurse_ Morrison. My _husband_ is Dr. Morrison." She held up her left hand, which bore a gold ring on the appropriate finger. "Now, let's check that infection." With a professional air, she pulled the bedcovers down to Tony's waist and began peering and prodding at the skin around the arc reactor. Tony kept expecting to wince, only to find that he didn't need to – while it was still a little on the pink side, the pain and swelling were largely gone.

Finally, she stood up again and began making notes on the electronic pad she was holding. "Better than expected. You've got a good, strong constitution, Mr. Stark. Good thing, too, as it was a good, strong bacterial infection. So how did you end up with that thing in your chest, if you don't mind my asking? Tattoos too boring?"

Tony smiled. He liked nurses with attitude. "I should probably just say 'classified' and leave it at that."

"Understandable. But if I really need to know, Nick will tell me." Catching Tony's look of surprise, she continued. "My husband and I are S.H.I.E.L.D. staff. Company medics, as it were." At that, Tony nodded. He should've known that someone as security-conscious – security-anal-retentive, really – as Nick Fury wouldn't risk a leak. "Well, I'll let you have your secrets for now. But would I be right in guessing it has something to do with those little bits of shrapnel in your chest cavity?"

Tony nodded again. His doctor in California had cleaned out most of the larger chunks years before, but there were some shards in hard-to-reach places that couldn't be removed without the risk of killing him. And since the arc reactor, among other things, kept them away from vital organs, he'd resolved not to worry about them. "You saw those, huh?"

"Are you kidding? They were impossible to miss. We did a CT scan while you were out, and you lit it up like a Christmas tree. Airport security must love you."

"Well, one more reason to have a private plane," he mused. "So am I ready to check out?"

Nurse Morrison chuckled. "Oh, not quite yet, Mr. Stark. I'll get the doctor and he can go over the details with you." She left, and Tony had the chance to think about other things, like _where the heck am I?_ and _boy, do I need to use the john!_ Thankfully, he was in a private room, the lavatory door was clearly visible, and they had left his boxers on him. He debated taking the IV out, then noticed it was on one of those poles on wheels and decided to take it along. Best not to piss off the doctor just yet.

When he returned from discharging ballast, there was someone else in his room, sitting in the chair next to the bed. He was probably about the same age as the nurse, but looked older, with curly gray hair receding from his forehead, droopy eyelids, jowly cheeks and a day's growth of salt-and-pepper beard because you can't properly shave a face like that. He had a slight smile, but it was the tired, rueful smile of a guy who couldn't believe he'd survived all that he'd gone through and was just glad it was over. Tony knew the feeling.

"You must be my doctor. Hope using the bathroom didn't make you think I'd escaped," Tony said as he sat up on his bed to face the visitor.

"Nah," the doctor replied. His voice was just as tired-with-a-touch-of-amused as his face. "Even if you'd tried, I'm pretty sure the Secret Service guys guarding the doors and windows would've tossed you right back in."

"Secret Service? Well, yeah, that makes sense. Knowing Nick."

The doctor's smile widened, and he nodded at the assessment of his boss. He extended a hand. "Dr. Pete Morrison. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stark." After Tony shook it, Dr. Morrison leaned back in his chair. "I imagine you've got a lot of questions."

"To put it mildly. For starters, which hospital are we in? Given Nick's penchant for security, I'd guess something inside a federal penitentiary."

A shadow crossed Dr. Morrison's face at the mention of prison, but he kept his aplomb. "No, he didn't go to quite that extreme. You're at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Since your work for S.H.I.E.L.D. technically makes you an employee of the Defense Department, it was the logical place to bring you."

"Okay. Bethesda is good. Next question – how did I get sick in the first place? Nick said that this," he said as he tapped his arc reactor, "wasn't the reason. And I really, really hope he's right."

Dr. Morrison nodded. "He's right. That ... 'arc reactor,' it's called? ... didn't make you sick. Directly."

"Don't tease me, Doc, please."

"Okay, okay. What happened was that you had a serious buildup of plasmic discharge underneath your machine there. You had all that junk sitting around, and with your body heat plus the heat from the reactor it was like a bacterial breeding ground. And things got out of control. How often do you have that discharge cleaned out?"

"Actually, I usually do it myself ..."

Dr. Morrison interrupted. "When was the last time you did it before yesterday?"

"Ummm ..." Tony found himself embarrassed as he thought about it. "Sheesh-oh-beesh, it was probably almost two weeks." He had been busy, but still, that was a long time between cleanups. "Usually I do it weekly ...," he added hastily.

The doctor's eyes bulged, his shoulders slumped, and Tony was sure that some of the muttering noises he was making were swear words. Finally he spoke up. "That would explain things. What's your setup for doing it?"

"Well, I have this vacuum unit, like the kind they use in dentist's offices. Scrub it out with alcohol after each use." Tony found himself sincerely hoping that would meet with the doctor's approval."

It seemed to. "Okay, that'd work. But from now on, you need to do it a lot more often than once a week. I'd recommend every other day, at a minimum."

"Doc, there'll be times I won't be able to do it that often ..."

Morrison cut him off again. "Which means there'll be times when you can. Do it when you can; when you can't, make sure you do it ASAP. Unless you _like_ spending time in places like this."

Tony put up both his hands in a sign of surrender. "Will do, Doc, will do. That leads me to my next question, though. I mean, you've got a nice facility here, I suppose – I mean, I've only seen the one room, but Bethesda is Bethesda. Still, I'd really like to go home and get back to work."

The doctor nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I understand." He looked down at the pad that Tony had previously seen in the nurse's hand. "According to Lucy, the infection is clearing up pretty fast. If it keeps doing so, we'll be able to stay on our planned schedule and let you go home tomorrow evening."

That wasn't what Tony had been hoping for. "C'mon, Doc, I have things I need to do. Fortune 50 companies don't run themselves, you know."

"I do know that. I also know that for a normal human being, that infection would require at least 96 hours under observation. I pushed for that, but Nick said you'd only need half. Turns out he was probably right, but I'm not going to take the chance of a recurrence just because of a patient's concern over his _company's_ health. Tomorrow evening, at the earliest." Tony was about to let his frustration loose when Dr. Morrison added, "However, I will let you have your laptop and cell phone back, so you can keep tabs on your business. And your assistant – a Ms. Collins? She hopped a flight this morning, and she has clearance from Nick; she should be here pretty soon."

Tony's anger abated at that point. "Oh. Well ... that would work." He sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable. "Okay, we'll shoot for Friday night. Um, I hope it's not too late today for the cute nurse to bring me lunch ..."

Dr. Morrison raised an eyebrow. "Careful there, Mr. Stark. I could always decide you need a colonoscopy too."

Tony went slightly pale at the thought, but kept his cool. "Are you saying you _don't_ think she's cute?"

"Not at all. I'm saying that I'm the jealous type. And that she's put up with enough in her life without dealing with amorous patients on top of it."

Tony made an "oh" face. "Dare I ask?"

Dr. Morrison considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "If you don't hear it from me, you probably will from her. I was in residency up in Boston with Lucy's first husband; she was on staff at the same hospital. At some point after they'd been married for a decade, he started 'collecting' candy stripers ..." He rolled his eyes.

Tony shook his head. "You'd think a man with steak at home wouldn't be going out for hamburgers."

The doctor nodded in agreement. "But that was Victor– he always was a pig. Anyway, I'll have her get you something to eat, and Nick will bring in your celly and computer. In the meantime, try to rest and get your strength back." He made a note on the electronic pad and headed out the door, and Tony reclined on his bed.

A couple of minutes later, he heard Nick Fury approach. It wasn't hard, as Nick was having an animated conversation that, as usual for him, included suggesting that several objects (in this case, an airplane and several reptiles) were having carnal relations with their own mothers. Finally, after about thirty seconds of relative quiet, he came in, carrying one of Tony's valises. "Well, Tony, despite all your efforts, Dr. Morrison seems to like you."

"I'll try harder next time, sir," Tony deadpanned. He took the carryall from Nick and began unpacking items. "So who was that you were yelling at? I'm assuming it wasn't the doc, but ..."

Nick shook his head as he sat down. "Just a little headache with the Department of Homeland Security – nothing that need concern you. _You_ need to focus on getting back into fighting trim. I don't like the idea of you lollygagging on the government's dime."

"Put your mind at ease, Nick – I've never lollygagged in my life, and now wouldn't be a good time to start anyway. There." He snapped his WiFi card into place in his laptop, and grinned. "Ah, I love the smell of the Internet in the morning."

Nick looked at his watch, then raised an eyebrow at Tony. "It's 1330."

"It's morning somewhere. So where did you find the bloodhound?"

"Sorry?"

"Dr. Morrison." Tony pointed to his cheeks, referencing the doctor's jowls.

"Ah. Driving a cab in Philly."

Tony stopped typing long enough to dead-eye the S.H.I.E.L.D. director.

"Seriously. Driving a cab. In Philadelphia. He'd gotten burned out on medicine, went through a messy divorce that he didn't want. He was driving a hack just to make ends meet. Lucy Papandreou – now Lucy Morrison – had just come on staff, and we asked her where we could find a good sawbones. She tracked him down, reassured him that he wouldn't have to do any abortions, and the rest is history."

Tony blinked a few times. "Abortions?"

"Morrison's a pretty strict Catholic. Part of why the divorce did him so bad, I guess."

"Jeez, Nick, it still sounds like a plot from a bad TV show."

"As opposed to an armored billionaire fighting terrorism?"

Tony pursed his lips. "Hm. So I'm supposed to head home tomorrow night, barring a setback. How's Riva doing?"

"A little shaken up, but otherwise fine. He and Colonel Rhodes headed back to Edwards this morning, once they were sure you'd be all right. You really shouldn't scare your people like that. It's bad for morale."

"I appreciate the advice, Nick – I'll definitely keep it in mind."

Nick almost grinned. "That's the surly, sarcastic Tony Stark I'm used to. Good thing; I was worried this shock would make you soft." He stood up, and his normal scowl returned. "Well, you get to work, and get back in shape – I need you kicking butt out there, not wasting my time here." Without another word, he left.

"Love you too, Nick ol' buddy," Tony mumbled with a twinkle in his eye after the door closed. With Nick gone, he could finally make some phone calls. Digging his cell phone out of the valise – _oh, good, it still has a charge_ – he made a mental list of who he needed to ring. Then he called Stark HQ and spoke to Phil Gelliser, his CEO since Pepper's death, to make sure everything was shipshape. Apparently there were no major fires to put out, though SI stock had taken a slight dip at the rumors of his illness (helped along, it seems, by sources at Hammer Industries). He and Phil talked out the wording of a press release to reassure the stockholders and send the gossip back where it came from. Phil said he'd personally pass the word to Ronny Blankenship and the rest of the Stark board.

The next call was even easier, to Wally Dreiberg and the Iron Man Green team. Riva wasn't back yet – he was expected before the afternoon was out – but he'd already let them know to start working on a prototype that would wow the congressional subcommittee. He and Wally got to spend a few fun minutes going over niggling aerodynamic and electronic details before Tony rang off, took a deep breath and made his last call – which could be either the most or least enjoyable one, depending on how it turned out ...

"Hello?"

"Christine, it's Tony."

"Hi! How are things in Washington? Did the presentation go well?"

"It went very well, but ..." He sighed. This was not what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it, but he didn't have much choice. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask for a rain check on Friday night."

"Oh, Tony ..."

He could almost hear the questions in her voice – _are you just giving me the shove? is this the "old Tony" coming back?_ – and hurried to explain. "Seriously, I'd much rather be there, but the doctors here at Bethesda won't release me before ..."

"Wait, what? Bethesda?"

"Er, yeah. You know, the naval hosp ..."

"I know what Bethesda is! What happened? Are you okay?!?" Christine's voice had gone from zero to panicked in about three seconds.

"It's okay, Christine, I'm almost back to normal. It was just a skin infection, and I got busy and didn't treat it like I should've." It was at least a version of the truth, the best one he could think of that didn't require using the words "arc reactor." "I just talked with the doc a few minutes ago, and he says that I should be okay to leave tomorrow evening. But that still means I won't be back in L.A. before early Saturday morning. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I'm just glad you're feeling better. I'll call Sandra and see if we can do it next Friday instead. Actually, that might be better – I think her current job wraps up next week, so she'll have more time on her hands."

"Current job? I thought she worked for the Red Cross."

"No, she ... well, it's kind of complicated. I think you'll understand when you meet her."

"Okaaaay." Tony heard the door open, and turned to see Pauline coming in, her Blackberry in one hand, a tray of food in the other. He waved to her and motioned to the chair before continuing. "Why do I get the impression you're setting me up for some sort of surprise?"

"Well, I can't imagine why. You don't mind surprises, do you?"

Tony heard a coquettish smile and a little bit of Richmond, Virginia creeping into her speech. "Next you're going to tell me you've always relied on the kindness of strangers," he said with a smile.

She laughed heartily at that. "Oh, dear! I've been working all these years to get rid of that accent! Y'all make me fawget mahself, suh," she added in a full-on "Southern belle" voice.

Tony couldn't help chuckling too. "Well, Blanche Dubois ..." He had to stop again, they were both laughing too hard. "Anyway, no, I won't object to any surprise that doesn't explode."

"You're safe there – Sandra doesn't usually work with things that blow up. Her husband, sometimes ... eh, like I said, you'll understand when you meet them. Do call me when you get back – maybe we can get together over the weekend?"

"That would be great – provided the doc doesn't put me on bed rest or something. Either way, though, I'll let you know." They said their goodbyes, and Tony switched off and turned to Pauline. "So ... how was your trip?"

"No problems, sir. Though I realized I've gotten spoiled, flying around with you on that plane of yours. Business class on United doesn't seem so luxurious anymore." She passed him the tray of food. "Up from the grave you arose."

"Nothing quite that dramatic, Pauline. Though I still wouldn't care to repeat it." He looked over the items on the tray: roast beef sandwich, green salad, minestrone, orange juice. Not a cheeseburger, but then he'd only been knocked out for a night and a day, not in captivity in central Asia for several weeks. It would do. He dug into the soup with a will. "Nick told you what happened, I'd wager."

"Yes, sir. Though I hope I won't have to nag you to, um ... vacuum yourself out." Pauline was one of the few people authorized to know about his implant, but like Pepper before her, she refused to have anything to do with its maintenance.

"Not after this," Tony replied between mouthfuls of minestrone. "Call me scared straight on that score. Even when I was in the sauce, I never blacked out – or misplaced about twenty hours. No, I think it'll be pretty easy to remember after what I've been through." He drained off the last of the soup and went immediately to the sandwich.

"Glad to have you back, sir." Then she went silent.

"Glad to be back." He looked up to see an odd expression on his personal assistant's face "What?"

She waited several more seconds, inspecting the corners of the room, before answering. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Permission to ...? For crying out loud, Pauline, you're out of the Army now! Just spit it out."

Pauline shrugged and obeyed. "I, um, overheard the end of your phone call." She seemed to be forcing back a smile.

"Mm-hmm?" he responded around a bite of roast beef.

The smile broke free. "You got it bad, sir."

Tony's face froze. He stared at her for a while before replying. "Do I?"

"It's ... rather obvious, sir."

Tony had to stop and think about that. Before the previous Saturday, he hadn't seen Christine Everhart, or vice versa, in half a decade. In the last six days, they'd talked four times (twice over the phone), gone for a drive, and shared two meals. Not a lot, truth be told. And yet, when he'd gotten his cell phone back, the thought uppermost in his mind didn't concern his business, his health or Iron Man – it was, _man, I hope Christine will understand my having to beg out of Friday night._ "Yeah," he said with a stunned nod. "You know, I think I do ..."

At that, Pauline began giggling, but swallowed it before Tony even had a chance to glare at her. In its place, she said, "Ready to end your vacation, sir?"

Tony smirked and set the rest of his meal aside for the moment. "Vacation my eye, Pauline. But you're right; Stark Industries didn't get to be where it is by running on autopilot. Let's get to work." He pulled his laptop off standby and proceeded to do just that.

But if anyone had dared asked, he would've had to admit, at least to himself, that his mind wasn't totally on his work ...

* * *

(Author's note: Some older readers might recognize several references to one of my all-time favorite TV programs, the '80s medical drama _St. Elsewhere_, including Dr. Morrison (played by the great character actor David Morse) and Nurse Papandreou. Ironically, when I did the research for this chapter, I re-discovered something I'd forgotten: _St. Elsewhere_'s executive producer was Bruce _Paltrow_. In fact, according to , friends and family of the cast and crew often provided the names of the doctors paged over the PA system – and if you listen closely during several episodes, you'll hear them paging "Dr. Gwyneth Paltrow." Gwyneth is three years my junior, so she would've been just a kid when the show aired. Nonetheless, I found it interesting that even in this little bit of trivia, you just _can't_ get rid of Pepper ...)


	7. A Lunch

Second Chances

Chapter 7

* * *

For disclaimers and author's notes, see the start of Chapter 1.

To all the people who've subscribed to this story, thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter – the last several months have been difficult, to put it mildly:

* In August 2009, my toddler son came down with a neurological condition known as Leigh's disease, which rendered him almost completely unable to move or speak, and which he's still slowly recovering from. We don't know if he'll ever recover fully, but we keep praying.

* In November, my mother died of a massive stroke brought on by the stresses of several other ailments (including inoperable liver cancer). I spent the next two months dealing of her estate and making necessary arrangements, in addition to grieving

* My family and I had to change banks, due to lax security at our former institution.

* My wife and I have both had minor but persistent health issues to deal with, some of which were (no duh) stress-related.

There were a few other things, but those were the majors. So I just haven't had the time, or energy, or focus, to do much writing.

Originally, I had hoped to finish the last chapter of this piece before Iron Man 2 hits the theaters (7 May 2010 in the USA). Clearly, that's not going to happen, as I have nine chapters planned after this one, and I'm writing this on 16 April. I think this will be the last chapter before I've seen IM2 (so I won't be adding any glaring story conflicts), after which I'll begin posting subsequent chapters 'til they're all up. Then I expect I'll be editing chs. 1 through 7 to reflect the current storyline.

This is, of course, contingent on no other disasters befalling me in real life ...

Okay, on with the show!

* * *

Sure enough, Tony was able to leave Bethesda on schedule Friday evening, with a clean bill of health, a bottle of antibiotics and three caveats from Dr. Morrison: get plenty of rest for a few days, make sure to clean behind the arc reactor regularly, and no going into the office until Monday morning at the earliest. The last, a younger Tony would have blithely ignored and hang the consequences. Now, he barely noticed the interruption. For one, much of the business he needed to conduct could be done from home via Internet or cell phone.

For another, he had more on his mind than business these days. Which was why, around one o'clock Sunday afternoon, he had his Audi R10 pointed toward a certain apartment complex in San Fernando.

Christine was waiting at the entrance, wearing a yellow sundress with a matching wide-brimmed hat and – incongruously, Tony thought – brown leather boots. Not that he minded; he had yet to see her in anything that didn't make her look good. Nor did he object when he opened the passenger door for her and, instead of immediately climbing in, she grabbed him in a decidedly firm bear hug.

"What was that about?" he remarked when she let go. "I mean, not that I didn't enjoy it ... a lot. But I feel like I'm missing some context."

Christine looked up at him as she got in the Audi, with a "get a clue!" smile on her face. "You. Scared me. That's the context!" She was still smiling as she closed her door, though.

Tony waited until he'd gotten in his side before replying. "I didn't mean to. If I'd had a hospitalization on my schedule, I would have told you about it in advance, I promise." That made her laugh and relax a little, which was the intent. "So how does seafood sound?"

"Sounds spectacular – I'm famished. I'm not used to eating lunch this late."

Tony nodded. "Yeah, when I called last night, I was surprised you wanted to meet so late in the day. Did you have an appointment?"

"Something like that." Christine pointed up the street. "My appointment was right over there."

Tony followed her finger to a large off-white building with a sign in front. He didn't catch all the words on the sign, just the two main ones that said "BAPTIST CHURCH." He looked over at Christine, one eyebrow raised.

She nodded, and the smile on her face muted. "Quoting Dorothy Sayers, I thought I should thank Someone that you weren't dead yet." She paused before adding softly, "How _are_ you doing right now?"

"Oh, not bad," Tony said, trying his best to sound light-hearted. "The infection was kind of like a defensive end: hit me hard, then went right on by. I've got some pills to take for a couple weeks, just to be on the safe side. But if I'm not 100% right now, I'm at least 95." He glanced over at her again. "I am sorry for frightening you."

"No apology necessary. I'm just glad you're okay."

"I'm glad to _be_ okay." Tony paused for a block or two. "It was pretty freaky when it was happening. I don't know how much time you've spent in the hospital ..."

"Too much," Christine replied in a tone of voice that discouraged further inquiries.

Tony took the hint. "Yeah, not much fun. So ... anything happen while I was gone?"

"Mmmm ... not really. Though it's probably just as well Friday didn't work out. Sandra wasn't in much shape to be social."

"Dare I ask?"

Christine made a thoughtful face before responding. "Heavily edited version – problems with her ex-husband. Financial stuff."

"Ew. Say no more."

"I don't think I'm at liberty to say any more, anyway." Christine leaned her head back on the seat and sighed. "I tell you, if I ever get married, I am getting an ironclad pre-nuptial agreement. I do _not_ want to go through what she's had to go through."

"I completely understand that. If I ever get married, I think my board will require me to sign one. Too much corporation stock at stake – and California being a community-property state ..." The state's law mandating a 50/50 split of all marital assets in the event of a divorce hadn't reduced the divorce rate, but it had certainly caused chaos in numerous businesses that had to be either broken or sold due to marital dissolution. "Not that it's really my preference."

"Really? How come?" Christine paused for a moment, them smiled sardonically. "If I may be so nosy."

"I understand – journalism instincts." Tony gave her a smirk of his own. "It's just that a pre-nup seems like preparing for failure."

"I guess you could look at it that way. But ... you have car insurance, right?"

"Of course."

"Does having it seem like preparing for a road accident?"

Tony had to ponder that for a moment. "Huh. I never considered a pre-nup as being ... 'divorce insurance.' I guess I'm going to have to rethink my position there." He smiled and risked a quick glance away from the road. "Having you around is causing me to rethink a lot of things."

Christine tried to suppress a blush, failed. "Well ... it's just that the number one thing I've learned from being near Hollywood is that sometimes even the best relationships can break apart. I can think of only one couple from my _Vanity Fair_ days that seemed more in love than Sandra and her husband. And they broke up too."

"Who?"

"Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger."

Tony winced. "Ooh – that did not end well."

Christine shook her head, then sighed in frustration. "I'm sorry. Here I am, thrilled that you're all right, and that we're together ... and I'm being Debbie Downer with all these Tinseltown divorce stories!"

"It's okay, Christine." Tony reached over and patted her hand, then let his rest on top of hers. "I'm glad that I get to spend time with someone who's concerned about people."

They both went quiet, Christine blushing furiously, until reaching the restaurant in Pacific Palisades, a favorite of Tony's. The maitre d' knew him from previous visits, and showed the couple to a fairly secluded table near the back, where Christine ordered pasta with shrimp and Tony a swordfish steak.

After the waiter left, Tony took a sip of water and asked, "So ... since you haven't yet gotten on my case for being nosy ..."

Christine smiled. "A journalist who complains about other people being inquisitive has no moral high ground to stand on. Go ahead and ask."

"Okay. Did you grow up Baptist?"

"Actually, yeah. We went to church every Sunday, anyway, but we were pretty much just filling a pew. My parents were low-key about it, but I enjoyed Sunday school and learned all the Bible stories. Had Daddy not died, maybe I would've gotten more serious ..."

Tony's brow furrowed. "What happened that changed your mind?"

Christine sighed. "Well, first of all, it seemed like some of the women at church started giving Mom the cold shoulder – like if she had been a better wife or something, Daddy wouldn't have gotten cancer. Then she met and married Paul Deston, who had come back to Richmond shortly before Bush Senior left office. And suddenly everybody wanted to be her friend, because now she was the wife of this politician ... I would come home from college, see what was happening, and it just struck me as so phony and cliquish." She laughed bitterly. "Worse than high school. Plus there was Paul himself ..."

"He wouldn't go on Sundays?" Tony guessed.

"No, he did. The problem was ... well, Paul Deston is really passionate about the Southern Baptist Convention. Maybe more than he is about God. There were all these political and social battles in the SBC during the '90s, and he threw himself into all of them. Meanwhile I was up at Brown, learning that the 'secular humanists' my stepfather liked to demonize weren't the ogres he made them out to be. There were a couple of other things that happened too, not involving him, but ... I guess you could say I walked away. I mean, I still believe God exists, but I don't believe he's a card-carrying Republican. Or that he would shun a widow."

"Well, I don't know about the 'not being a Republican' part ..."

Christine froze. "You're joking."

Tony put up both hands. "Yes, I'm joking."

"Okay. You have to understand, there are people out there who really think like that! Including, I suspect, my stepfather."

"I understand. Sometimes when I hear things like that, I ask my friend Pete about them. Pete's my Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor; he's also a pretty hardcore Pentecostal, fundamentalist, born-again, whatever. I'll ask him about some story I've heard, and he'll just shake his head and say, "Tony, sometimes I don't understand Christians – and even being one doesn't help.'"

Christine laughed at that, then said, "so how about you? I mean, being in AA, you at least believe in a 'Higher Power' or something, right?"

"True. In fact, the reason I asked you about the Baptist church was that I spent a couple of hours yesterday someplace similar."

"Really? Go on."

"Well ... it's kind of a long story."

"Hey, I'm willing to take the time," Christine replied. "And don't worry, we're still off the record," she added with a grin.

They were momentarily interrupted by the waiter bringing their lunches, and Tony took a few bites of his swordfish before beginning. "I was raised ... 'moral agnostic,' I guess you'd say. My father's ancestors were radical free-thinkers in the revolutions of 1848 back in Germany – that's how they ended up in the U.S., the revolutions failed. My mother's family were technically Catholic, but non-practicing. I guess my dad was kind of a deist – he had been a graduate student at Princeton when Einstein was there, and he loved that quote of his about how God doesn't play dice with the universe. But that's as far as he'd ever go."

"But when my parents died, I found out that he had arranged years before that when he went, there would be a service at this Methodist chapel up the coast. To this day, I have no idea what the connection was – maybe he just liked the look of the place, who knows? But it was all spelled out in his will."

"So you started attending there?" Christine asked.

"No, it never even occurred to me. My belief, such as it was, was of the absentee-watchmaker variety. 'God as engineer' is hard not to accept when you're an engineer."

Christine nodded. "I've always found the 'argument from design' pretty persuasive."

"Anyway, to make a long story ... longer," Tony added with a chuckle. "A few years ago I realized that my drinking was starting to get out of control, and I needed help or I was going to end up in trouble. I knew Pete was in AA, so I started asking him about it. Finally, with a little help from ..." _... Pepper ..._ "... from a friend, I finally worked up the guts to go to the meetings, and began getting in touch with that 'Higher Power.' And I remembered that Methodist chapel. So I went and talked to the reverend there to see if I could just drop by once in a while, to have a place where I could go and think. Turns out the place is usually locked, but he knew who I was from the news and said he'd be willing to give me a key if I was willing to sign the proper liability forms. And," he added with a smirk, "make a small donation."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Money," she sighed heavily.

"Well, I understood where he was coming from. Poor fellow only has forty parishioners, and he needed to get the roof fixed. I had the money, but needed more peace of mind. So ... he got a new roof, I got a place to chill out and ponder deeper thoughts than usual. Which is where I was yesterday – like you said, thanking Someone that I wasn't dead yet. And thinking about the company, about Iron Man. About you." He paused to let Christine recover. "But I've never gone on Sunday morning. Probably for the reasons you mentioned. If I thought people weren't acting like they should, I might be liable to say so, and then who knows what chaos would ensue ..."

"Yeah, I can't see Tony Stark being silent in that situation. I mean, even today – I'm leaving after the service, and the parking lot there is big enough to have an entrance and an exit, both with prominent signs. I reach the exit – and I almost get hit by someone coming _into_ the lot through the exit. And he honks at me, as if it's my fault he can't read the sign!"

"It doesn't seem like how Jesus would drive ...," Tony agreed.

"Yeah?! I ... I guess that's what bothers me so much – why don't people who say they follow God act like they do? Okay, none of us ever live up to our ideals perfectly, but it seems like some people don't even try."

Tony nodded. "That's one of the questions I've asked Pete. I know he tries ... and even he can't figure out why others don't. It's just one of those things, I guess."

"I guess," Christine said, reluctantly. "But then they wonder why people outside their circle don't want to join the club. If you're saying you believe one thing, then doing another, it's only natural for people to think you're _youwp_!"

Tony was looking at his plate when she ended her sentence, so it took him a second to parse the last sound he'd heard. "Sorry, what?"

He looked up to find Christine with an odd pinched look on her reddening face. She reached down into the bodice of her dress and fished out ... a shrimp. Apparently it had fallen off her fork on its way to her mouth, and dropped into her bra.

She placed the shrimp on her napkin and sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Well. That was hardly ideal."

"I don't know," Tony riposted. "I bet it was for the shrimp."

Christina's face froze for a few seconds, and then (much to Tony's relief) she broke into laughter. "I can't ... believe ... you said that!" she remarked between guffaws.

"I'm sorry ... I probably shouldn't have ..."

"No, it ... it's okay ..."

"Well ... it does have the advantage of being the truth," he concluded softly.

Christine finally caught her breath. "I hope you're not just saying that, Tony."

Tony shook his head. "I'm not just saying that, Christine. It's not a line. I ..." Had the temperature in the room risen, or was it just him? "It's ... been a long time since there was ... since I had ... hell, I can't even talk right now." He smiled ruefully and took a deep breath as Christine suppressed a giggle. "I guess what I'm trying to say is ... it's been years since I've felt about anyone the way I feel right now."

Christine's eyes widened. "Really?"

Tony nodded. "The last time was a couple of years ago, but she ..." _... died in my arms ..._ "... wasn't interested. And I guess since then, I've just thrown myself into my work, kept busy so I didn't have to worry about it."

Christine reached over and took his hand. "I kind of know the feeling. It's been awhile for me too. I mean, I've had a couple of relationships over the last year, but then ... well, things didn't work out," she finished flatly. "It can get lonely."

Another nod. "Yeah, I was doing so well at it that a friend had to come kick my ass and tell me I needed to get out more. So I took his advice and made sure the next weekend to attend the big Red Cross shindig at the Kodak ..." He smiled and looked into her eyes. "And I'm so thankful I did."

"So am I," Christine whispered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony noticed the waiter heading toward their table, stopping when he saw what was happening, and veering off elsewhere. _Good man_, he thought, and made a mental note to increase his tip accordingly. "So where do we go from here?"

Christine's smile faded slightly. "That's the question, isn't it?" She chewed her lower lip pensively. "I ... I'm sorry, I don't want to be vague, but ... well, we've only been seeing each other for a week, and we've both been on the shelf for a while ..."

"And we've both been burned before," Tony added sympathetically.

"Yeah. I mean, I have so enjoyed being with you these last few days – it's been almost too good to be true. But that little voice in the back of my head keeps saying that if it's too good to be true, it probably is ... and ... I guess what I'm saying is that I'm still sorting out some things, but I want to keep going – with ... with this, with 'us' – and see where it leads. But I'm afraid of going too quickly ..."

"Take it one day at a time." Tony couldn't help but smile as he said it.

"Exactly! One day at ... wait a second, that's an AA slogan, isn't it?" He nodded, and she chuckled and ducked her head. "I guess maybe you do understand. Most guys, when you say you want to take things slowly, they kind of freak out."

"Well ... I guess I'm not most guys. For one, I've been through some tough times, as you know. For another, I've learned that if something is good, it's worth waiting for." Tony gave Christine's hand a gentle squeeze, then let go. "And for another, I was raised to clean my plate before dessert – and they make a terrific lemon pie here."

"Count me in." They continued their meal and each had a piece of the pie (Christine agreed that it was terrific), talking about whatever came to mind and enjoying the safe harbor of each other's company.

Too soon, it seemed, they were headed back inland to Christine's apartment. "We are still on for Friday night, right?" Tony asked as they neared her complex.

"Absolutely – and _I'll_ pick _you_ up. But I have to warn you – it's not entirely under my control. Sandra has something planned for us, and I guess she's contacted a few mutual friends – I don't know the details. You may have to be ready for a small crowd."

"Oooh, I don't know if I can deal with the performance pressure," Tony replied with a fake quaver in her voice that set Christine to laughing. "So Sandra is your social secretary?"

"Eh, I think she'd like to be. Mostly, I think this is part of how she deals with the divorce – by filling her free time with friends and get-togethers. When she's not working," she added with a wink.

Tony played along. "Hmmm, why does that sound familiar?" That earned another laugh from Christine. "Well, I'm looking forward to meeting this mysterious 'Sandra' and the rest of your circle. I just wish we could meet up during this week as well, but ..." He shook his head.

"Busy schedule?"

"Lunatic. Meetings galore – mostly design meetings, thankfully, but still. And I've got a press conference Wednesday for some modifications we're introducing to the HazTech suits, and another one Thursday for a new power plant we're helping to build in El Segundo ... and the beat goes on. But I've still got your phone number, and you can expect to hear from me during the week."

"I'm looking forward to it," Christine replied with a grin. "I hope talking to me will be more enjoyable for you than a press conference about a power plant."

"Without. A doubt," Tony replied with an arching of the eyebrows that said it might generate more heat as well.

This time, when they got back to Christine's complex, Tony parked and walked her to her door. "I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed myself this much," he told her when they got there.

"I can."

That stopped Tony short. "Really? When?"

Christine smiled puckishly. "Tuesday. And before that, Saturday." Then she looked to one side for a moment, as if thinking, before adding, "but I think I know how to improve on those." And putting her hands on either side of his head, she pulled Tony down for a kiss.

When they broke the kiss, fifteen seconds or a thousand years later, it was a moment before Tony could speak. "Hwooo," he whispered.

"That was a bit forward of me, wasn't it?" Christine said, softly and a little nervously.

"Absolutely," Tony said in a tone of approval, and kissed her again. This one lasted even longer, and when it ended, they didn't pull away by much. Both were breathing a little heavier than usual.

"Wow," Tony mumbled.

"Yeah," Christine replied.

"You know, if ... if we kiss again ..."

"... that whole 'taking it slowly' thing goes right out the window, yeah." But it still took all their willpower to untangle. Finally, though, Christine found the strength to pull away and get her keys out. "You're causing me to rethink a lot of things, too."

"Glad to be of service, ma'am," Tony said with a smirk and a tug at his forelock. That got him one more Christine laugh before they said goodnight.

Tony was mostly silent as he drove home. He didn't want to do business, or listen to music, or anything except think about those kisses. "What a woman," he whispered as he pulled onto his own property, before starting to mentally prepare for the busy week ahead.


	8. A sad note for my readers

To the readers of "Second Chances":

Well, we've run into a bit of a problem …

The problem, of course, is that as of this writing (12 May 2010) _Iron Man 2_ is now out in the theaters, doing land-office business – and the plot of same has shot more holes in the plot of "Second Chances" than I could ever reasonably fix. I won't bore you with a list of same (especially given that said list would include a wheelbarrow full of spoilers), but suffice to say, my story as a believable continuation of the IM movieverse is dead in the water and sinking fast.

Originally, of course, I had expected to finish "Second Chances" by the end of 2009. Life, however, intervened (rather forcefully – see the notes at the beginning of chapter 7) and I find myself at this point halfway through the eighth of a planned 16 chapters. And I am saying "planned" for the same reason I am posting this – to let you, my readers (esp. those who subscribed to alerts), know that I will not be completing this story. My apologies for any inconvenience this may cause, but I can find no way to make "Second Chances" conform to taking place 4½ years after the story presented in _IM2_, short of making it a completely different tale. Simpler to just write a new tale from scratch.

Which – trumpet fanfare and clash of cymbals – is just what I plan to do when I can find some free time (starting in June, most likely). I've got one partially plotted-out, with the working title of "Prometheus, Pegasus … and Pepper." I promise that it will have danger, excitement, romance, new discoveries, shocking revelations, beautiful women and Nick Fury restraining himself from going medieval on Tony's … um, hindquarters. If I'm careful, I won't have to edit it too much once _IM3_ comes out in summer 2012. (More to the point, if I'm fortunate, I'll have the darn thing _finished_ by summer 2012!)

For the moment, I thank you for your patronage (and patience) in the past, and hope for the same in the future as I endeavor to provide you with enjoyable fanfic. Take care, and don't buy Hammer tech if you can possibly avoid it.

Yours sincerely,

"Aaron Cronin" (not his real name)


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